Caked Gum

Step by step I measure out a night

Spent looking through glass windows

At dimly-lit faces seated around dark wooden tables.

Occasionally, I slow down to appreciate

The graceful flicking of a wrist

Or the courageous placement of a palm,

And my heart smiles in recognition:

Camaraderie in this city of ones,

Conjoined twos and awkward threes.

I jump over puddles reflecting the black sky

And watch for yellow taxis carrying

Melancholy passengers to beds in thin rooms

Where they will succumb to the streets' muted symphony

Wafting through shutters and landing beside tired ears

While I continue marching alongside foreign soldiers.

To the rooftops, I imagine we appear united—

We all have legs, we are all careful,

And lightly place gazes upon each other.

I walk some more, so much myself,

With a transient shadow and recoiling reflections.

I keep my hands in my pockets fingering my phone,

Narrowing my eyes and stiffening my cheeks.

I breathe in their cigarette smoke that I hate to like

Before I descend sticky steps into the subway’s void.

After the humid air congeals on my skin

I hop into a screeching car,

And then I stare at lines and sterile lights,

Pictures and shoes, eyes then eyelids,

And I feel so acutely me,

I feel remarkably divorced,

Yet I long for momentary bondage

And losing my reflection’s wide-eyed interest.

My weary yawn is a silent “City, take me.”