exit poem m
the lute of her
iphone she matriculates
with pretty, worn
digits, slender fingers
dancing the polyethylene
She could use help with
her plastic trader joes,
but manages them,
as she is shopping
over long subway rides
when the train emerges
from the dank of essex,
we stare past each other
through the opposite windows
into the stormy subterfuge of
our williamsburg bridge
summit,
For I know she will
not go as far as
I will, sadly,
the tale of the
tubed meander,
but one day,
in my mind,
we reach the
stop together, I
push my one hand through
plastic, the other
through hers
we walk home
to food and cheap wine
the most sublime
of a subway exit
