Two faces, like fresh-minted money, Hiss in through the doors
With their shining luggage.
I watch them
reflected on the glass
absorbing each other like mirrors.
But her face, alone in the station, looks through me
like we don’t share the same day.
This makes me want to scratch like fury,
spoil the view for everyone.
I want to screw the alphabet, shout fuck in letters
taller than a magistrate’s house.
I want to scare up tribes to sack the suburbs
and ruin your daughters.
I want to wipe off
the cheap gloss you have put on my slavery.
When it rains,
I trace the hieroglyphs
that spray against the pane.
When it’s dark
and I’m alone in the tunnel, I cancel my own face.
When the sun shines I’m gone, but my scribble still falls
over her nyloned knees.
One day I’ll take too many, get lazy with my blade
and menace you for money.
Then doctors will puzzle me, doodling over my file
in temples of glass.
While I wait years
for the verdict,
in a station without trains.
Till an expert comes
in velvet gloves
to hang me in your gallery.