The rest of the ride was in silence.
Except for the occasional shift of my bag.
And then the french woman behind me took a call.
I imagined it was a happy occasion,
her voice was soft and her breathing rapid.
Years ago I walked through a turnstyle at Port Authority
while a man in a suit stood still.
I’ve dragged myself back to the same station since,
wondering if I should have looked back.
Every New York City bar
has made a beast of a woman like me.
I bit through chain and scratched through fence,
and always found my way back home.
Pulling into Penn Station,
I sit in my seat while around me the shuffle
of bags and jackets
are like wings of a moth on a screen door.
Change happens slowly, with everything
repeating in increments. I have been here before;
where the cops kick awake the sleeping,
and the homeless need $12 for the bus.
I let the woman beside me nudge my hip
until we are together
floating up the escalator
I don’t know where to put the loose memories.
They come back when I unlock my bike.
The rain holds off while I push toward
the east river.
Every bar on the way glows neon.
My baskets are too full of my backpack
and shopping bag.
I graze a few taxis and steady.
Home gets closer and further away.
It is an apartment,
The rain holds off while