Coming Home
A poem
Will you be waiting
when the last train sighs to a stop?
Beyond fractured lines of humanity
filing out in broken speech.
See me stall on the platform graveyard
shoulder the vending machine
out of order (out of boredom)
merge to steel on frozen escalator
a clot in this city’s central organ.
Are you in the crowd
crowded around the grand piano?
Around the girl with slender fingers
who doesn’t look up to see me
carved into little square pieces.
Like a throne for the junkie to groan
stone nook for the beggar to sleep
like the baby one level below
cries for you at morning
in knotted stained blue sheet.
Black toe to the pavement blanket
scattered remains of stricken leaves
huffing hops and yeast yellow breath
turning their sickly autumn green.
Cold wind grips my ear
bites down with canine teeth
bury the chin and the rest.
Tonight, I’ll take myself
the long way home
I guess.
Vic Spandrio 2021
