August Poem 11: The Subway Station

In the subway terminal, Jenkins pulled

His shirt away from his chest and pumped it

Back and forth to circulate the cool air.

The air conditioner took the edge off

The triple digit temperatures of late

October. This Indian summer brought

A shroud of strangling humidity

Not unlike the lingering barnyard smell

Of body odor and urine of the

Typical subway stop. Not only was

There a long line to get through the turnstiles,

But the place was jammed with people standing

Around dripping sweat. Likely, most of them

Had stopped in to take a break from the heat.

September Poem 15

Robert inhaled from the seats,

A larger bed of one, a bottled expanse of blue,

And exhaled large rings of amber.

 

He was lost in the fumes through the vent hole.

The fictional nostrils

Smashed against one wall and died.

 

Human armpits imbedded into

Sunlight streaked diesel, and sleep,

Death’s interior, was perfumed with my feet

And a bittersweet mix of husky dwarf.

 

I know from sweat that tough

Where the oils from the long expanse

Dangled from the stained blacktop.

He would not regain the armrests,

Nor his sense of smell for a month.