Swelter

By the time the train reaches Newark, the flash rain is upon us, drenching the train and creating puddles like oceans between the tracks. Arrive at cool, quiet Penn Station and take an extra train just to stay underground, the homeless congregating in the tunnels to wring out their soaked belongings. Omnia mea mecum porto. When I at last must face the downtown streets, the storm has passed and all that remains is steam, rising from the asphalt and lingering on my skin. My AC still stuffed in a closet, I pass out in a sweltering jungle of a room, and the heat wakes me through the night from all manner of dreams, strange but not unpleasant.

She tells me how to play the game now so I win but I’m not looking for a trophy. He tells me you must be blind but none of the care consoles me. I stood in an abandoned parking lot in South Williamsburg one warm day and knew that I was losing everything, that it was disappearing like grains of sand between my fingers and trying to catch them would be like caging a proverbial bird. I have whispered my what ifs long enough.

I speak only with the Universe directly, now. If my soul is clear enough, I reckon I can will it to listen.