friday sonnet (#218: jumper)
before the doors open, let alone close.
& on into the day, watching them pull in,
waiting for the right one, as if you weren’t
inescapably generic, as if you meant
something at last, mediocrity praised
where it counts, & each one not quite,
rivetted by snapshots, shimbashi,
hamamatsuchō, hardly stations of the
cross, hardly the gap, ocean dark
below. distracted by headlights, battery
indicator, another sliding in like an
exercise in mass & momentum, only
your inertia to thank for it, tamachi,
shinagawa, hours into hours, into days.