Rush Hour

Do you think the M train can get to where it’s going without all of its pregnant pauses? I wrote this in its first trimester. The stop and go pattern would drive anyone to walk instead of ride. We’re held between Essex and Broadway again. Just enough time to question why we left in the first place. Rush hour can be anything we want it to be what does yours look like? Don’t tell me. Wide open roads and a parking spot with your name on it. I can see the rest of your life if I squint my eyes, hold it close, dream it to be. Like the way my dad reads the paper, up to his nose then further back then folded down into the shape it was delivered. It’s not so difficult to do, the looking into the future I mean. Give it a try when you have a second. Or maybe a few consecutive ones tied together by space and serendipity. How’s your wife, how’s your life? Is that the same question asked once then twice? Miss to Mrs I wonder why she needed to write it on a chalkboard and shout it into the abyss. It’s dying the first moment it takes a breath but at least my train is moving again.