when the left hand disappoints
more than the right ever could

and another A train catches fire
and you still love to write

about your irrational love affair
with the New York City subway

when you want to laugh
and all the jokes turn sour

on the tongue
your mouth shut \ jaw clenched

when you see an ad in the New Yorker
for passion \ drama \ Russian romance

a Tchaikovsky marathon
to be performed

by the Minnesota Orchestra
on its home turf

and you lose your place
in the geography of reading and dreaming

when water drips
from the basement ceiling

and you wish you could fold a flood
and put it in a drawer

and never yell
FIRE again

when you accidentally eavesdrop
on the Lyft guys at the next table

and wonder where
all the girls are

when missing puzzle pieces
articulate the spirituality

of imperfection
in Leonard Cohen’s face

when #MeToo triggers flashbacks
to a large empty brick house

and unidentifiable jazz
leaking from the radio

and the weight of him on you
muffles the NO’s

and all the self-hatred
that goes into climbing

in and out of
open bedroom windows

when the pain apparent
under transparent skin

shouldn’t lead you
to a wooden box

confessional

and the trombone player
will never kneel the penitent’s light on

when the messiest clean artist you know
is you \ and grime writing purifies the soul