The Moya View

The Loneliness of Moving Spaces

To ride the subway clutching half dead roses

in a paper bag is to know that shadows

have weight, light has gravity and geometry

exists in algorithms of pain, that  sadness

is  a reflection of the loneliness of space and time.


Even the sisters under the MTA map,

one cradled in uneasy sleep

in the cleft of the other’s shoulder,

the woke one staring mournfully ahead

as the cab lights alternate between

jaundice station hues and tunnel blacks,

are aware that they are moving grave stones.


The lovers awkwardly  kissing in the next seat,

her eyes slightly open not meeting his gaze,

their heads tilted so far their faces misalign,

exist in the uncertain promise of intimate connection.


A woman stealthily smoking nooses of ash

steps on, cradling  a crying cup of coffee,

while an old man with a cane holding a

rattling tin of coins blindly exits to the platform.


At the top of the exit, the nearest brownstone

has a family gathering to take a clan photo,

their impatient gazes exposing the micro spaces

between their existence and their own lonely thoughts.


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