by Richard Fein
In my last semester—before sitting down
to Sister Carrie—
I watch you dressing for work—pulling
down your mole-
brown dress over your head—and I silently
happy—my fascination at watching you move
from garter belt
to zipper and makeup for the world—my
at your hands tidying your hair or your fingers at an ear lobe—
my not saying a word while watching you look into a mirror—
watching your compressed lips leave their imprint on a tissue.
Motorman in his cubicle—You turn from
me to enter
the subway car—fixedly step into that
the rubber fins of the doors emerging from recesses—
pausing—then meeting behind you—your
back like the coat
of a rare animal disappearing into a thicket—and
as I stand
on the platform—near a pillar with its
and doors slowly pass me—accelerate and
exposing the trench of grease between the rails.
Copyright © 2003 by Richard Fein.