portion of the artwork for Tim Tomlinson's poem

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 there’s a street in New York that doesn’t

move from under the feet, a street you can
find on a map and it’s still there the next
time you look for a pharmacy with a sale
on toilet paper. There are days in this

city—you’re 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. I’m feeling

that way today, bouncing out of Columbus
Circle with the breath of a janitor
hot on my scalp. What’s 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. I’ve no stomach for much
anymore, not even pretzels, and when

I reach work I hope there’s nothing left but
cockroaches crawling through smoke. It’s that kind
of laugh I could use this morning screeching
to a stop at the nonsense of West 4th.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010