It’s Thursday morning

Or so my broken watch face says

A neon mermaid’s in the throes of a flickering death

Barista’s a little wired and her hair is a mess

She looks me up and down

Assessing me for some kind of threat

Do you still sing of our love?

Do you sing it to the birds?

Do you sing it to the birds?

Do you sing it to the birds?

Heard you humming down your powerlines

A pulse in your wires toward me

Urbia

Where parallel rail lines meet

I knew there I’d find you

Boundless and bare

The heart of this city has lain

And they say even the pigeons look down with disdain

But our City Fathers and its unsung mothers decree

There now will be a show

Got wheels

And I’m burning up the tarseal

Whoo hoo hoo

My wheels spinning

Like thoughts in each head of a body in a driver’s seat

I once read oil was sunlight

Down onto prehistoric plants

Down to peat swamps and lake beds

And down into the sea floor

It’s a Wellington wind

Rolling fog off the waterfront

And I

Under the frailest of moons

An open bracket in the sky

On the Harlem Line from Brewster

The 9:05 speeds in on time

To Grand Central Terminal

The end of the line

This morning’s coffee with her son

Will have to coexist

With an existential conversation with her oncologist