Commutation
The half-dream of a tragedy unremembered—
that is to say, business as usual.
That is to say, last stop, get off the train.
You rise still waking
though it’s dark and late in the day.
Luggage wheels get caught in a stutter.
Step on a crack, break
your mother’s back.
Step on a brick, break
your stepmother’s hip.
Crowds waiting to go where you came from.
To do what you did, in reverse.
The half-dream receding. The tragedy
escaped, though it never existed.
The turnstiles’ snickering choir. Better,
so it seems, than what was before: a false alarm,
an incomplete sentence. Business as usual.
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