18: January 2018 #03 - Outbound
Authored by PJ Carmichael
What am I to say that hasn’t already been spoken by the weathered faces of the elderly, the pursed lips of those who lament their middle- age? (The symphony of sighs stretches upwards into the ether, each passing minute driving impatience into insanity.) I aim to respond to the reactions of contemporaries but fear my language is outdated. The clock’s hands slide from throat to thighs in a matter of seconds as bodies, both celestial and unshaven, worship a blazing orb unknowingly. (Trains are delayed in predictable fashion.) One can see the parallels between lives when hungry and weary, though we so often court our own suffering, leaving others’ out in the cold, freezing to death on a park bench in Winter. An apathetic rush to the exit begins, only to be held up at the entrance to each traincar. (Waiting in line: a stubborn lesson in patience, a virtue.) The luxury of sleep presents itself in the form of an empty seat by the window. This isn’t poetry, merely the end of another day.