I Got Out When it All Went Down
I’m no longer dead in the morning
fetal and afraid to start the day.
I don’t get stuck in the subway
or scan the shadows of streets.
This life is better than Betty
and all that was, but lately, the lights
flicker whenever I walk past.
I don’t know, maybe it’s just
the hard labor, but I feel the dark
and nobody in Nicetown knows
about dust. It’s starting to itch me,
what I did, and maybe Pennsylvania
isn’t far enough. Maybe there is a place
you can pull peaches and oranges
from trees. I wake from dreams
thinking, I am not a soul.
Then, last night, in the bar
they were all watching
Fox News again. Nobody looked
at me. And I wanted to say,
it was best, what happened. I never
liked those buildings: their shadows
froze everything. Mornings walking
into their long trench coats was like
walking into slabs of ice. And once
I saw Betty where I did not expect
to see her: hailing a cab way the fuck
down on 15th and I thought, Christ,
I was not where I should have been
that morning, started for work a little late.
Ditched my phone near the chaos, crashed
at the Port Authority. And it is a small comfort
that my photo hung on the walls
with the murdered, that maybe
she’ll have enough money now.
I like to picture her going to that hole,
the sun on her face and a new man
on her arm. Safe, thinking my bones
are buried, that the past is the past
is the past, and I am not coming home.