I saw a poorly defined man lasso an
entire world
underneath the train tracks
every morning on my way to work.
He looked like he was struggling with
it-
As much as he looked like anything-
But every time I thought about offering
him help
he would say,
to no one in particular,
Everything comes and goes
And continue to
grapple with his universe.
It was a colorful
place;
an artist's
delicate touch made sure each face felt comfortable
because she hoped
that they would be there awhile.
The homeless man's
cigarette smoke didn't seem to bother them
And every time I
wanted to ask about the trains in the sky,
I held my tongue,
because I knew they
would tell me
you get used to
it after a while,
because Amtrak runs
on a schedule like everything else.
I thought about
drawing the man with the lasso a friend
but by the time I
found my sharpie and stencil
he had
already come and gone
leaving his
universe to float for a while
like a fish on a
stringer
One morning I found
the colors of those faces spattered with gray
and smoothed over
like freshly laid concrete.
The universal
cowboy's lasso faded into the wall he called his home
like everything
else he once held.
That afternoon I
bought a can of spray paint
because when a tunnel becomes a canvas
it can only stay blank for so long.
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