“How Many Transfers”
How many transfers, how many lives
And never mind the pain;
I ascend descending steps and reign
For miniutes on the platform sans fatigue, forgetting strife.
Less the aromatic oils of obstacles, reticent, perhaps, for yet another year’s
Summer’s breath. This station welcomes that train
Long before it leaves. Weightless freight speeds gently seen through panes
Of plastic; the métro’s brilliance holds nothing more pernicious than it’s dawn,
while evenings’ dusks merely signal calm amid collective progress in arrears.
Knowing anything (a slight surprise) does not smooth the way,
No urban superstition nor phatic prayer, no tragic flaw
Abides dissembling diatribes to thrwart decision. Intervention
Needs not advertise a lack of means to champion fixed decision
From nothing more than daily pundits’ milk straight from the elect;
No thing in heaven or in the earth is ever quite remembered
At the baggage claim as all my January’s premonitions die as early as December.