My asphalt gray hands grasp my heart.
My fellow drunk, eye-catching and alive, singing on the late
subway home,
his familiar smell of booze
slanting down towards me;
The office worker across, his plaintive face on his arms,
standing with his eyes closed,
and the limitless expanse of highway emerging from his chest
in the window reflection.
It was the illustrious morning after,
In the rosily fingered pantry
with the bolt-action shotgun.
The furrows of sorrow leak hazily from my entrails.
Oh, what I would give for
another hand
and the deadpan sincerity
to hold it all in.
