Saturday, May 30, 2009

apartment 42

on broadway the train rumbles as it follows the tracks under 134th street,
and on the corner a man in a sombrero
sings along with the recording coming from the bakery.
the low rumble of voices next door mixes with the hiss
of the bus letting passengers off.
nate says something and she laughs, mentioning Spock
and something about william shatner's haircut. they
must be watching star trek while they unpack their boxes.
i scrape my hair back from my face for the millionth time and
lean over to inspect the bruises on my legs. moving up here
was a long process and the black and blues are
everywhere. as much as i love this room, i can't help but sink
a little at the realization that you've never been here.
sometimes when i can't sleep
i prop the pillows against the headboard on your side of the bed
and just sit there. i'm not sure that i can technically call it your side
when you've never even slept on it, but
it is where you belong.
i wonder would we sleep as close in this big bed
as we did in the tiny one before it,
waking at 8 am drenched in sweat
from forgetting to turn the air on.
I still think in the blurry first few seconds of waking
that my hand is resting on your chest and not the pillow.

another train, the man with the sombrero has stopped.
i wonder will you ever be here
to tell me stories about what his song means?

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