CuppaGemma

The first passengers board
this dry train on a wet day
crowding in their dampness
pulled with a heave, with a sigh

The loud ache of weight
on metal turning curves groans
left, groans right, catching
its breath at each station

No one, except another poet
could keep on knocking,
soliciting you with verse

Ringing at odd hours
and asking, “If possible,
fix me a sandwich…”

Gobbling up intimate
moments forming characters
rumbling out their minds

Wanting to be pulled into
the raw hit of heart demands
Going on, going back

Never intent on selling or
completed ‘cyclopedics. Searching
for needed additional lines…

We are lonely restless
carpetbaggers, with gaunt eyes
hard hands, clutching yellow pages

His legs are gangled meter sticks,
flexing occasionally at the knee,
swiveling in the rack and pinion
of his pelvis and incapsulated
by worsted wool finished with
soft sole wing tips…
taking two stairs at a time
his stride pushes the lines away

She shivers in hose and mutters,
“Damned skirt has no kick pleat” to
extend the spread of her legs,
And slip on mules are not designed
for going down stairs, or quick paces,
her clothes expect delicacy she ignores,
curling her toes taking smaller steps
with more RPM- catches the train despite
extra lines of limitations

Leaning on their elbows
as cheeks pull in their dimples
and jowls sigh wide contentments
they nuzzle noses mid sentence
enjoying the taste of lips over latte
finding their day in that hour
conversation carts pulling with
fast and slow lulls coupled
by their eyes, “Want another”
“Nah, just sit for a bit” before
schooching off to other stations

And they watch the daily scene-
little pressed men streaming in
swallowing their danishes,
scanning their papers
too busy to smoke the
cigarette that consumes
itself with ashes waiting
for attention, like the
forgotten housewives
they cannot escape
but do not touch