The air I breathe

Poetry / Reprint December 2, 1987

Only sidewalks and trashcans,
Strangers, stairs, and dampness (all year ‘round),
and noise.

And fast, crowded trains that close their doors at every stop ―
comforting arms around my shoulders,

and strangers, and angry words:
foreign words, words of entreaty.

Trains full of salespeople, selling:
dreams, promises, stories of despair,
homelessness, drunkenness, craziness,
handicappedness, lostness, foundness
No place.

An intake of breath,

Thoughts are focused on the words of books, papers…
Thoughts wander. Problems from work. Plans for home.
Emotions numbed, held in check, lest some hint of

Feeling, caring, wanting…
should show.

Inside I still have control.

And if I expire, if I let out the precious little place inside me,
I have no choice. I become part of the no-place outside me.

And, unlike a fish that cannot breathe after the water from its broken aquarium seeps into the carpet, I find that the same air (though maybe a little too cold or too hot or too ― fragrant) rushes into me.

It’s air without walls and glass, without familiar faces and things.
It’s air without dimension ― limitless.

It leaves me exposed, on all sides, to infinite horizons:

Space bursts outward and inward.
Thoughts whirl about as mere fragments and glimpses of ideas.

Smiles, frowns, sadness and tears, and even laughter, drip from every pore.

The print dances before me.
Quotation marks give rise to voices
Speaking the words, giving them life.

I want to be part of it: the book, the tunnel, the voices, the strangers grouped around me. We’re carried along, taking up spontaneous choruses.
It’s been days since we left work.

Or is it merely hours… minutes?

Reluctantly I look up to see what station we’re in.

Three stops.

Two stops.

I drag myself out of the current.

The book grows silent as I slide it into my pocket.
Strangers part to let me out.

December 1987