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by REBECCA FOSTER
in the middle of the liminal drip of winter to spring, countering a sheet of wet ice
one-thick-inch under every step, I will wear sneakers to work, scanning the march faces
who choose between hat or head, toward the plastic-draped corner-store, I will
mutter on to the office by the dog-walker and his six clients smoking marijuana, I will
choose my news, ignoring the prince of painting in discussion behind my desk,
whose treadmill voice will not admit him to the miramax world he glosses,
in the next few days I will not come to the office, I will find a friend and drink
at least 5 pints of beer, I will hunch in a theatre, nodding off to the madness of an actress,
I will write to a boy who built teepees and gave me his vinyl copy of Thriller–
marking the envelope with 6 lines of letters that will somehow point to Kuwait,
I will complain about my roommate's habit of endless complaining, I will sleep
for hours and on waking try to sleep, rejoining the rhythmic hurtle of the subway
outside my window, heading down under it all.
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