The day I left my watch behind,
the bus driver threatened never to stop.
I barely noticed, too busy languaging
and basking in my walkman’s splendid
isolation. Wish I wore sunglasses even
though windows are tinted and it’s dark
outside. New Brunswick. Where the other
side of the river is another world,
where I wear gloves typing at my own
computer. I step over bar regulars daily.
Going to class, coming from work. One day
I will step on them, hoping to hear a thunderous
crunch. Like the one I heard last night, stepping
on cockroaches, belly up, in the equipment
closet. Almost there. It’s hard to believe
there’s still seven and a half hours left of
menial mania. I’m going where I am hidden
from fall foliage and I’m going where
vowels are the secret to crossword puzzles,
where my name spreads like smoke in an
airless room and they feel that this is
the perfect rectangle. Where angels clip
their wings to become human. Where baby
sonnets mourn their missing couplets.
The optometrist told me that my head is
crooked, so my glasses will never be straight.