The CTA runs thousands of miles each day. Elevated rails weave through Chicago like the tangled strands of a nightstand hairbrush.
There are two stretches of underground track that run parallel to each other, cutting across downtown. These subways are caverns of light mildew, pothole puddles seep through their ceilings. The squeaks and screams of wheels on rails take priority over anything else you’d hear.
I hope my lips planted rosemary on the edge of your shoulders I don’t love at my own convenience it’s bursting from me as steam does surrounded by southern winters.
61369 - Gratefully
Compressed time, the lingering hands atop the cathedral, the blue mornings spent in bed sharing a cigarette, ashing into a sauce lid the elevator, the capital, it started with you, all of you, sitting next to me as I bore down the highway in complete disbelief.
61415 - Signature
As the sun slipped set between my eyelash and polycarbonate I leaned forward hands half-pocket to you, stiff lips, teeth gritting against cheeks, I knew then your heart was knotted, tight as it could go.
61450 - Fatigue
I lay fast on my mattress hands taut as rubber
the springs sigh for every night you cried as I slept
it’s a quiet sobriety on the first day of fall.
61481 - Bon
Staring down the city with a harried energy, down to the quick of my nails
I’m headed for the tollway on a sawdust morning running on fumes, running through the ledger of what you’re owed.