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Inside the stopped train
growing warm, I watch
the broad wings of noses
speckled with blackheads,
the pink bald spots
starting to sweat. I remember
my summer job, piling dead dogs
into hefty-bags, the fur
sliding off in fistfuls,
or holding an Irish setter
while a needle eased in.
Home, I feared my door would open
before I was done, my pillow a lover
whose white shirt I peeled back.
The one-night stands
those years, I couldn't stop
their struggle and thumping
in my embrace, their dead weight
in my arms. I take a plunge,
I take a wild curl into myself,
I take up residence
with my left hand,
I pluck fuzz from my ears
or stubborn hairs
from my nostrils, keeping at bay
their certain spiral toward the grave.
Fluorescent light inside the train
yellows faces, still I stare
my bland amazement at this fellow’s face
in the smoked glass pane,
full sacs under his eyes
raised like dimes,
the veil of hair hurrying away
reveals my scalp.
I can’t conceal with the loudest shout,
with tricks of memory and skin
(the conductor stating, the passengers
glistening, waiting).