Commuting Time
A Brief History Of Late
I thought working nights might help. I lied to myself.
I check my wristwatch. The minute hand is moving at the speed of a second hand. Outside the subway windows there are black walls, some lights, and billows from the steam pipes. And that hum of things running but not moving.
We are being held here momentarily by the train dispatcher. We hope to be moving shortly. We apologize for any inconvenience.
The only other passenger is way at the other end of the car—red hat, reading a book. He doesn’t seem to hear that warning tick tock.
This is where I slip into reassuring myself that my job can wait.
I ricochet all these daily reasons that are the source of this Anxiety into flower arrangements of Blame, multi-colored mental Post-its, stuck accusingly all over the subway stations and trains.
Maybe somebody jumped on the tracks.
Perhaps the world outside ended.
Conceivably this is a dream and I’ll wake up soon. My Dream Creation Department for months now has thrived on endless permutations of the
never-getting-to-where-I’m-going Frustration Theme.
Perchance I’ve died and am trying to avoid the revelation of what the Next and…
