Mom will die and Dad and then--- this is not news to anyone. I try not to read the paper, though sometimes in the train I forget and suddenly my head is full of rape and death. This is no way to commute. Then the world goes on. Sunset in the evening, the distant glow of cellphone lights in the park. Sometimes I come up from the underground and see the sky. I mean really see it. Mom will die and Dad and then there will be clothes to keep, or give away; closets to explore. What if I find his porn collection? The weed he didn't finish? Should I smoke it with my sisters, high together at last, and sad? I wish the stars would rearrange themselves and spell out their names. Then death would be fair -- no matter how he lived, whether she got the job she wanted or not, the sky would announce them forever as RICHARD and WENDY. Just above my head. So close I could almost touch--
This is not news to anyone, but I love them. It makes the commute bearable.