Eleven Subway Stops

Why am I still thinking about that incident with the loft & the dead cats? Or all the hateful names he called me before he started laughing? Or her request for that found footage to go viral? Or the theater piece about body as vapor and life w/o scotch tape? Why am I still thinking about that vegetarian Cuban sandwich that was crossed off the menu?

The side zipper on her jeans matched her ankle bracelet that matched his belt buckle that matched her locket dangling down. Her chipped nail polish matched her friend’s sitting next to me. The lace on her blouse matched her shopping bags with brands I didn’t know. The color of her headphones matched the label on his shirt that matched his untied laces. His briefcase matched her street bargained kangaroo coat she was showing off that matched the color of those last sips of iced coffee held in someone else’s hand.

The blanket wrapped around her newborn matched the cover of his book that matched the stripes of his socks. The spikes of her purse matched the characters drawn on the back of her jacket which matched the game he was playing that he couldn’t stop. The rim of his cap matched his wallet sized magnifier that matched the rivets on her high heels that matched the tip of his umbrella. Her scarf matched the little petite pastries stamped on a cake box that matched her eyeshadow.

Nothing I had matched the color of his hair or those tights with silk-screened words that had been scribbled out.

His dog carrier matched the color of her bare skin. The handle of his cane matched the ad selling safety. A beaded strap attached to her glasses matched his tie that matched his water bottle which matched her rolled up cuff. Her tiger’s eye ring matched one of the tattoos crawling up his arm. The notepad sticking out of his pocket matched her low cut tank top that matched the two toned soles of his sneakers that matched the predictions she was telling him. His watch matched her coiled hoop earrings that matched the tiniest pierced dot on her nose that matched the “We Buy & Sell Gold” billboard we’d just passed before going underground. Roses in her fresh bouquet matched the color of his soda.

Why am I still thinking about how you can read a person by a pair of shoes? I don’t think she matched those knee high sequined boots. But the celadon vinyl flats worn across from her? A match. And he? The fabricated paint splotches on his matched him perfectly.

Screeching and squawks and rumbles keep me updated on forward motion. I don’t think I’d like the ride to be any quieter.

I’m still thinking about why his sister was given a lobotomy. Or how it is to live on a boat of accelerating possibilities. Or the expression on her face as the pale indigo sheet dropped to reveal a young girl being sent to die. I’m still thinking about this morning’s decision for another unjust imprisonment.

Doors. Again. Open. I’m thinking about how I can exit.
A police van was parked on the corner replaying the same recorded message over and over that couldn’t seem to drown out the piped music coming from the ice cream truck.

Are there no radical gestures left? Is it possible to lose everything?

What does it mean to be in love with a view?

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