crisp not crass

Why the metro is magic

Two lazy-eyed lovers sat on a train,

(that wasn’t a metaphor - their lefts are actually lazy)

and though the woman was not

what I’d call a spring chicken

…

the man kissed her shoulder

and stroked her arm

and kept looking sideways like a boy, three-to-six,

checks on the wagon that carries his life’s neatest treasures.

He held her the way

one faces warm days in winter —

eyes sweetly shut,

all smiling to himself.

When rain sinks into places you forgot you had skin, what saves is the breath you weren’t waiting to take. A rustle of leaves, falling — still beautiful after they’ve fallen; cheeks, red with laughter, rosed and rinsed by local beer; a cheer, maybe a damper, even a slap in the face; more morosely, wheelchair women, bent-back beggars in the cold, rained on for days longer than it took you to notice them. “This is real life,” and the timber makes no difference. Everything counts. Even beaten and worn, we are! Always. At a time, in a place, when and where we can engage. I reckon what separates our encounters is only how fast we forget them. So I say fight to continue feeling, to value and remember; and win by choosing to live memorably.

Chère Lutèce,

L’idée de te quitter me frappe plus en plus souvent.

Je ne veux pas m’éloigner de tes rêves!

Tes chemins suivis de mes pieds,

les memoires qui ne sont pas les miennes mais qui

me nourissent toujours quand même.

Tu ne possède pas de charme

car c’est ce que tu es -

en soi, pour moi,

en toute mystère.

Tu as l’air

de ‘chais pas!

de clandestinité —

et sans doute, sans remède,

mon âme, je suis tombée.