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?