The last time
I took mushrooms
I got stuck

under the East River
in a subway car
for more than a half

century tucked into
an hour. More than
just another bad trip.

I wish I’d been alone
with only strangers
down there. Regrets.

I claim to have none.
Then another ex-lover
reel plays

in a too well-lighted room.
No blinds, shades, curtains,
not even a ratty sheet

to use
to cover those outsized
windows. I can’t tell the difference

between fresh and salt
water thoughts
from this view. An angry sun

leads to the worst
bouts of shame. When it’s over,
I always feel a little

embarrassed that I let it
get that far. That I’ve gotten
on the wrong train.

Can’t really blame the guy.
Not the subway, city
dwellers, or even the chemicals.

It’s never the river’s fault
especially when the river
is really a strait.