First kiss in a shared
bedroom closet in New Jersey.
She would grow up
to live inside
the New York City subway

dwell time

long after moving away.
Would finally confess
the love of her life
to be a crowded train
rushing along subterranean tracks

on a sunny day
in October. Those closing
door chimes
ring louder and clearer
than any guitar

she mistakenly thought
was played just for her.

A cold second
Friday in May.
Who’s still frightened
by that missing floor.
Who’s still waiting
for the elevator
to bring us down.

This cold damp day
won’t find a mirror
for 8 months. Nothing
unfortunate about that
curving in on itself.
Nothing stands on end.

inside
never outside
a box in the crawl space
beneath the cellar stairs is where
she dwells

The joke is obvious.
The child is not. Anything AA
Bondy sings, says

to me, brings tears
to bent smiles.

The GPS watch
gets off track. I run loops
around the figure eight

lake, not in it.
I still don’t understand

why it’s illegal
to walk along
highway shoulders.

No one wants
to talk about
the irony in

are we gonna let
the elevator
bring us down.

Oh, no, let’s go.
Boy trouble with trouble boys.
Oh, no, that’s me.

Thinking we’re soulmates
because neither of us drives—
the biggest joke of all.

You were right. Someone should
take the wheel.

Didn’t get one of the cartoons
in The New Yorker
last week. Have always known

the joke is on me. Never knew
till now, no one notices.
No one cares. No one needs

to know
the miles I walked,

on what kind of roads,
in what kind of weather,
to get here.