friday sonnet (#219: bluething)
skanks, avoiding the skyliner, here in
bullet time the clichés waddle like
suica penguins, arms held stiffly in high
def 3D. late for life again, there’s a queue
in shinagawa, & you somehow thought
the express would be faster, everyone
crashed out, now up over the other tracks
& we creep to the platform & all change,
such optimism in the face of facts.
back in aomonoyokochō, determined &
suburban, the angel of coffee & the
cigarette angel flutter insistently, the angel
who pulls the strings is tying newspapers
into bundles. is it time for sleep?