POEM 041/100

November 16, 2012

After staring down the final period

at the end of a great novel and closing the cover

on that world of experiences—


Lately I wake up with that feeling

POEM 040/100

November 8, 2012

Whenever the train enters a tunnel

I can see silver fingerprints on the black window


Maybe I’ll get drunk tonight

POEM 039/100

November 7, 2012

Directly in front of me

is a vacant subway seat


I long to feel that way


POEM 038/100

October 25, 2012

If I died this afternoon


—let us imagine I will be jostled off this subway platform

grimy with spilled coffee and chewing gum

into the path of an oncoming train

which causes several hundred people

{such as this guy berating the battery in his phone for being dead}

to arrive late for dinner

in snippish moods with insults perched of their tongues

ready to leap into the hearts of those seated across the table


my life would have amounted to

give or take

adjusted for inflation

somewhere in the ball park of



Well, big deal

this is not a particularly tragic or unusual truth

after all even when the most celebrated actor

shuffles off this stage they’ll leave only smudged footprints

behind them in the spotlight

and the audience


—already in an uncharitable mood

as she believes her date has stood her up

once more

for the last time


simply because he forgot to charge his phone

so can’t explain how the subway has been delayed

due an “injury at track level”

surely she’s heard about it

happens all the time in this city

Well, she hasn’t

but luckily she is in possession of the tickets

so doesn’t have to wait for him in the October drizzle

just five minutes more

{he’s just around the corner now}

and is able to put her coat and bag in his empty seat

which is kind of nice, actually,

and on her other side is a young man

cute, in a malnourished sort of way,

whom she nudges with her wedgy elbows and —


mutters conspiratorially about how dusty the stage had gotten

during that last dreary, interminable, unfocussed, trite monologue


—did the producers really think they wouldn’t notice?

she asks her new friend

who glances down, uneasily

at the hand she’s placed on his forearm

an action which obliterates from his mind

before he can fully wrestle with

the meaning behind the actor’s monologue—


None of our lives

{or deaths}

have been

{or will be}

particularity tragic

{or unusual}

or meaningful

{or meaningless}


But today

on this subway platform

grimy with spilled coffee and chewing gum

this truth bothers me a great deal about myself

POEM 037/100

October 15, 2012

While our society endlessly debates

the definitions of love and marriage,

no one is working on a word to describe

the sour milk smell of poverty


POEM 035/100

October 2, 2012

Her clothes

look so unhappy

to be worn by her

POEM 034/100

September 18, 2012

The coffee became bitter

as it cooled, forgotten

behind a potted sprig of catnip

POEM 033/100

September 13, 2012

Your right eye

and my left

meet over the ridge of the pillow


A rising star, a setting sun

and the sound of the air conditioner

POEM 032/100

September 7, 2012

This is the point in the bus ride

—the down slope of the bridge—

when I grow disdainful of any book I’m reading

and lean my forehead against the cool, dirty window

to read license plates



POEM 031/100

September 6, 2012

Work completed for the day

he leans all his weight  on the door frame

and wipes his brow


“Now,” he sighs,

with a grin that favours sadness,

“I have to go home and cook my dinner

for I am alone”


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