Thursday, October 18, 2012


Love pressed between glass slides, his trembling fingers afraid to touch.
Fingers diverted to microscope dials, yearning to bring love into focus.
Dirt caked beneath fingernails, unshaven mouth whispers, What, oh what the hell is it.
The laboratory is a sharp and cold place, cold as heel-slapped roads late October.
Morning dawn frozen solid, he climbs off the bed of splinters beside the subway stop, that subway stop, whichever one you imagine, coffee burns fingers back to life and a stiff amble to the laboratory.
Where, oh where the hell is home.
Glass slides slip from his trembling fingers and shatter between feet.
What, oh what the hell was it.
There is no answer to the question, echoed in the sharp and cold laboratory where the scientific method has exploded to debris.
Now he might never find home, because he will not have discovered when to meet her at the subway train. He will have to leave it to chance or prayer, and since he does not believe in such things, there is no use.
He will climb down onto the bed of splinters beside the subway stop and dream as little as possible, to reduce the statistical possibility of her passing in his sleep.
His burden of proof.