Vile blueberries
sleep beside mustard covered glass
withering with despair over the detritus of lost dreams
and splintered bridges with seams torn asunder by fear, accusation, projection
and the knowing that it is too often too easy to be alone in a city
where polite vomit is a clue to ATM receipts
where taxis sail to Harlem—the last stop before Heaven
where you can’t use your Metro card after dark.
All this she said, as she crumpled her dirty tissue
into her pocket but not before
wiping it clean with the Truth
of her own withholding.
Debra Weiner 