Upon Leaving

Brooklyn, NY - Peter - Wednesday, April 10th, 2002 : goo

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"...Move to Brooklyn and you'll practically live on the train..." but I pack my life into boxes, neatly, and the shade flaps as a breeze leaks over my beaded brow, evaporating the sweat of this painful time of growth.

Shouldering my load, I trod the cobbles, purging my empathies in measured breaths. A wailing siren, a diesel grunt sings out; a sorrowful sigh amidst a punchy, nauseating anguish, and I hesitate too long before raising my hand to block the noise from my ringing ear.

Who can silence the voice of the city? Its tongues call to me in veiled timbres, preaching the blackness of the pavement, harbingers of a melting sun they are, gilding rhymes from the click-clack of the passing subway train.

I enter the station, a shower of blue-white sparks arcing over my head as the noon sun half-cascades onto me, its heat irradiating, hot solar fire.

"That which burns the body ignites the soul."

With another step, I'm south-bound, and the clouds slip away, bringing shady solace to someone. Anyone. Anyone but me.

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