June Morning

By Fritz Eifrig

Posted on

sun’s steady breaths ink open
the first paragraphs of another day.
shoes crunch across the glass
from a departed car window,
drunks stumbling
to find direction or peace
while the city rubs its eyes
clear of disbelief.

still reeling from
the morning I left your bed
for good.
the Lawrence el arrives.
8:30 southbound, sick, slow train,
full of rails enough to drive it elsewhere
every time.
skinned knees two mornings after all
of everything we said,
and the imprint of your unsure arms
still holds me.

alone again, and strangers fade
to friends as I shake against them
standing here,
while deep back, tired endings call
beginnings fools.
a thousand times I looked at you,
shattering my vision,
pasting sight to sound.

on the platform
flower bucket
water captures rippling
moments of the sun
scratching at the edges,
and thoughts of what went wrong
today swirl suddenly
like blood and toothpaste
in the sink.

my hands split raw
against this net of words,
woven through
these blurry days;
and still it cannot cannot hold you
closer, tied like bricks
to steel built on sand.

it grinds inside,
bits of glass beneath
these rush-hour feet,
this Uptown dance,
so far from coffee, cats,
and the morning
sounds of birds.

Fritz Eifrig