In Transit

by Matthew Harrison

Conversation
lemons
at Some summer,
huh? The subway
plunges
the hot tunnel
and there is
a rotten-apple
balm leftover: Pew,
pee-yoo this kid
keeps pouting
and the amputee
beneath the almost
nude model
for a Christian
Dior ad sells
bracelets of braided
grass and shoe laces
and is The World's
Greatest Dad says
the green words
on his camouflage
shirt, maybe. Hey
since when did
a week pass reach
thirty bucks anyway?
That buys like a case
of Budweiser, one
of those rotisserie
chickens and I
don't know, a box
of Trojans. Ribbed.
What a rip. Blows
for real though. Fuck
me did the six come
already? Shrugs. Big
Mac box, squirted
mustard pack. Not
saying I need to come
from somewhere
or go but I do
like watching time
to time. Been living
fine with no watch
for ages, myself.
Breakfast was lunch:
two Fig Newtons, coffee
no cream, lime and cherry
Tums. My new Top-Siders
are no longer popular.
I am this moment
missing Ringling Bros.
and Barnum and Bailey
Circus: candy apples, Honey
Buckets, horse shit, hay,
how my eyebrows arched
at a leotarded woman who
spun high suspended
from something clenched
in her teeth: something too
delicious and rare for her
to let go. But no reason
for me to share this
memory today. Not
with people burning
for destinations. Not
on the way between
stations.


Matthew Harrison lives in Western Massachusetts. His writing has most recently appeared or will soon in The Cincinnati Review, Ping Pong, Word Riot, Atticus Review, Gargoyle, The Saint Ann's Review, and elsewhere.

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