Arrival.

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
toward home.

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,
a voicemail.

The rain holds off while
I pedal.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry, Summer, travel and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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