Commuter (Day 295)

I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 

and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 

and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 

collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 

a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 

of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 

got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 

at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 

travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 

parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

Native Intelligence (Day 287)

He comes and goes 

under cover of darkness, 

even on a sunlit day,

the soft click click click 

of his bike gears

often the only sound 

giving him away 

when he wheels it, 

scowling and stomping, 

under my window

because he does 

not like to work.

It’s a shame, really, 

considering

his native intelligence, 

uncultivated and neglected, 

despite the myriad 

advantages that 

ripened and fell, plum-like,

onto the green grass 

around him while 

he idled on the lawn 

outside the modest but clean

white vinyl-sided house

where he grew shabby

and thick with weeds. 

His few friends--

partners in crime, 

his mother joked 

each night when he came in

--might have considered 

his descent a warning, 

had they grown up

in a town worth 

staying in--or even 

a town worth leaving.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TheoLeo via Pixabay 

The Starry Night (Day 219)

The brown serge, warm in the deluge, 

grew clammy and rumpled easily 

when squeezed into the five-thirty’s

ever-crowded, cramped seats.

Trillions of stars watched as he

—shoulder to shoulder with neighbors 

and strangers in the second car from 

the end—relaxed into the swaying ride 

down the coast toward the unknowable 

emptiness of this Friday evening. 

Somewhere, his seat-mate’s newspaper 

announced with barely suppressed glee, 

a devastating something or other

had caused property damage and,

almost certainly, loss of life.

Somewhere else, right now, he imagined, 

a plane was touching down on searing, 

crackled tarmac, bumping toward a terminal, 

fuselage already covered in red dust,  

overhead bins clunk-clunking, heralding 

the beginning: of vacations, of adventures, 

of memories of a lifetime. Unbelievably,

that lifetime was no longer his; no longer 

his, the smile, the camera, the deep bliss 

of the first, exhausted flop onto the hotel bed, 

the sigh of delight, the de rigeur perusal 

of nightstand drawers and room service menu.

Trillions of stars still watched, as the silver line

of his train pulled up to a darkened station,

spilled a swarm of damp, disgruntled 

commuters onto the pavement, and heaved 

itself southward. Hitching his collar higher, 

fingers wound tightly around the house keys 

in his pocket, he paused, took one slow breath,

then turned left and headed uphill, trudging 

slowly upward into the starry night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Fæ via Wikimedia Commons