Neighbors at 9 AM
Tim Tomlinson
Against the shoulder of my neighbor
I absorb each jiggle of the B, each
wobble, each loss of balance, and I wonder
if theres a street in New York that doesnt
move from under the feet, a street you can
find on a map and its still there the next
time you look for a pharmacy with a sale
on toilet paper. There are days in this
city—youre probably having one now;
why should you be any different?—days when
you want to say go ahead, pull the god-
damn trigger, get it over with. Im feeling
that way today, bouncing out of Columbus
Circle with the breath of a janitor
hot on my scalp. Whats left to feel anymore
anyway? The feeling’s been murdered out
of me, my face hidden in the Post and
the night sweat still damp on the waistband
of my skivvies. Ive no stomach for much
anymore, not even pretzels, and when
I reach work I hope there’s nothing left but
cockroaches crawling through smoke. Its that kind
of laugh I could use this morning screeching
to a stop at the nonsense of West 4th.
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