the art of getting used to
what is it about the art of getting used to?
i see it in the complex taking form,
steel girders latticed into frames
before the mason flesh begets a building
out of stone.
and as the floors do rise the bus does whoosh
beside me at the crosswalk, orange and cantankerous.
what changes is the soundtrack -
electro trend or strawberry swing, i’m late but
i still revel in my cordless glory.
if the elevator breaks i could go crashing down -
no kick to wake me from this dream, just death
or taxes, whichever comes first.
but one hundred sixty-eight hours pass, and bagels appear again,
cream cheese arrayed as the bus does whoosh
and girders frame
and 4:4 lulls me back to sleep.