There is nothing that I’m able to say. That’s what’s sad.
Left unheard. Stay unsaid.
What’s the point?
Walking aimlessly down Broadway,
down past church and funeral pyre,
by Jeff Glovsky
My train each day is a filthy ride.
Harried passengers, captively feigning aplomb, have no choice… The alternative is meltdown.
In the tunnel, wind rumbles, belches, swirls. At the end, finally, light.
My train arrives.
A clock face smiles genially as it marches into sunset.
Racing backwards down the slope of Time, the face stops glowing, cracks appear; it winds itself less regularly… Forgets to sound reminders now and then… Alarming.
Increasingly, out of sync.
They still engage.
To whatever extent it matters (and it matters to me, a bit sadly, a lot), they’ll say things and strike up bemused conversations, amusingly shifting to repartee… or small gauntlets they feel emboldened to throw down!
“Nice touch, with the ice cream cone,” one yells. “It makes you look innocent!”
This beautiful stranger! As I walk down the street on a hot summer day with Moosetracks dripping down my shirt…
As I’m licking my finger after flicking it up, she yells, “Nice touch, with the ice cream cone!”
And she smiles.
A bit sadly, perhaps.
In a diner, where I “dine” alone, a rap on the glass between me and the street. She is laughing like a college sweetheart, saying something I can’t quite make out…
‘Til her friend pulls her along and I’m left laughing through the glass myself. But alone, with some french fries, like uneaten meat.
Now I realize (a lot, sadly), I might end up home-bound… Or hiking my shirt up above my neck, spinning blindly and spitting, rejecting awareness…
Uncogent, and swearing and lashing far out…
Or in thirty years, who knows? I may have slithered from this mortal coil… pooled around my ankles, swelled edemic or lopped off from underuse, or Type 2 diabetes…
Beautiful strangers engaging me now, do so piteously!
As my french fries cool and Moosetracks drips, and I become less and less engaged…
Less bemused and amusing, a bit sadder (sadly).
And vaguely, enraged.
In NEW YORK, before loud hordes pollute each day, and in MUNICH, before tourists take dumps on the canvas — and in any place I find myself with a café or diner open early enough — I avail myself of public solitude.
Some words on ‘mornings’… by Jeff Glovsky
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Not to be confused with
a short Story by Jglo