PUBLISHED: June 25, 2014
Perhaps it is the matter of going out
which bothers me. That you or I
or someone we know will have to get up,
wearing only the warmth of the memory
of our clothes, and find an airy socket
in the car-fumed street. They say
it is possible, for those who go quickly
or who are born with only one soul
to slip out with dignity, from the back row
at an opera, and into a black cab
with plush seats and tinted windows full
of aquarium lights. But what about
the rest—the underdressed millions
forced to rise and leave with the curtain
still up, and the sound of someone’s voice
lingering on the air. Do they file
one by one into the street, leaving behind
a pair of gloves or a half-touched
glass of wine, waiting for no one to arrive
and offer to pay the fare? But then
who’s to say that you and I, busy making
small talk with someone or another
on the last sidewalk, couldn’t manage
to find a road of our own, and a ride.
