Penn Station

The arrivals and departures are announced,

but you cannot hear them.

The rats outside the station scamper

up and down the planters, sniffing out each other’s asses.

A TRENCH COAT by the column shifts

to get a better view of three SHOPPING DAY TEEN GIRLS

in matching winter hats,

with their names painted on cardstock by Chinese street calligraphers,

and they themselves are appraising the MODEL COUPLE floating through,

in their Burberry and Polo,

and the MODEL COUPLE, they themselves in turn are realizing

the arrivals and departures are being announced,

but you cannot hear them.

And then there are the lost ones

sifting through the station trash,

throwing empty beer cans at me,

spitting bile as I pass and try to silence the change in my pockets,

and they sometimes smash the rats on the planters,

and sniff each other’s asses.

They sustain somehow on the refuse and the rats,

and bleed into the linings of their military jackets.

I make the next train.

PANDA PARKA squeezes next to me,

struggling with her bottle.

She’s going on a blind date in Rutherford, New Jersey.

It is so late and so dark,

and I cut my finger opening the lady’s beer.

I call my old girlfriend to tell her I didn’t.

I tell her about this wedding I went to.

I held the pinky of a typical bridesmaid,

as I puked on both our place cards.

She worked at the zoo, which is mythical,

and I kissed that bridesmaid in the cold traffic,

while the groom danced with his mother,

and wept tapioca tears,

and the bride danced with her father,

and owned him once again,

but none of it was real.

I hang up hard.

My old girlfriend is one of those,

who will be looking for the perfect kiss until she dies,

and now because of her, I suppose,

so will I.

LEOPARD SKIN in the corner of the car is on to me.

She wants to taste the salt of my young skin,

she wants my young eyes on her leather.

The conductor charges me the difference.

ALL THE DENIM IN HER CLOSET explodes on my other side,

all over her paperback,

god bless her.

And bless us every one,

and I plug my ears, and the LEOPARD SKIN,

and the station announcements which you cannot hear,

and my old girlfriend's naughty valentines,

and the blithering SATURDAY NIGHTERS,

their open mouths which are blinding me,

their chatter eating through my music,

drowning out the announcements,

the station stops,

the conductor’s face,

a tussle-topped child in the vestibule squawking,

Keep moving

more seats up front

keep moving

you don’t have all day,

but no one hears him.

I don’t hear him.

And my nose is stuffed up,

and I cracked the skin on my knuckle at some point

opening a lady's beer.

Out the window there are plastic buildings,

lychen trees, and cardboard mountains,

plexi-glass rivers, and working stop lights,

and everything is quiet as snow.

There's the King George Inn,

and the Methodist Church,

and the cemetery across the street,

and Pop's Saloon,

and The Old Opera House,

and the post office

with its famous slogan,

which we all know by heart,

and will recite again:

Neither rain, nor sleet, nor fear in the mirror,

nor ashes to ashes, nor dust to dust,

will keep these rats from sniffing each other’s asses,

and falling into mythical love,

and wrestling with styrofoam angels,

and climbing ladders with broken rungs,

and wanting to live in all time/all place -

anywhere but here.

ANYWHERE BUT HERE.

The end of the line is announced,

the arrival and departure,

the last stop,

but no one hears it.

Not even the innocent.