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.