collected poems

vi. at the subway station

for this writing contest, all i have to do
is be in love or fake it.
find the prettiest words
and trim their stems at pretty angles
with a heavy pair of scissors,
keep the words fresh for the next hundred lifetimes
and feed them to the hungry brains of wine-drunk students
who'll come after me.

but the train rattles by to the sound 
of the woman in the corner scratching 
at her violin, croaking out old songs,
collar pulled over her face.

all i have to do is write this love poem
but there are people who reek of coffee and hopelessness
grabbing for the bars, appealing out the windows,
burying their noses in black-and-white wars.

the eyes of the next train are glowing out of the dark
and there's me with
fistful of my hair,
thinking all i have to do is draw
a parallel between bodies and fruits,
strangers and romantic notions
about public transportation,
but the orchestra plays on 
and the tracks are like veins--
my fists are balled in my pockets;
my heart is underground.