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  Another Little Wind

Timid, sourceless worry caught as a small pain in our eyes
as we sat—the light drifting in gray sheets—distrusting,

untiring, benched. Today was atop us all and groping
in Oakland, California as we waited a commuter train.

I could not think. Ill omens and graffiti stunned my eyes,
always the focal point of our residual being—too soon

remorseful, swelling, gender-based and fleeing toward
a shitty little thrill; and besides, the train was delayed

where a little wind now blew newspaper across the rails.
The restrooms were oddly unoccupied and something

was, in itself, becoming a focal point—around the open
trunk of a large automobile, rude words, threats, elevated
      gestures—release.

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