on leaving every poetry reading early

my feet are guilty implements.
the sidewalk magazine-glossy with winter.
i miss the city with all my body-- i miss it
despite rolling inside like
a marble. in the room, everyone's mouths
were front doors. glasses full 
& lips rushing forward. my nights 
burn themselves home.
a merry-go-round heart. whose staircase
taught you how to cry? whose
subway stop is this? not mine. 
whose fire escape?
everyone's bodies warm
with electricity. the body is
full of it. little light bulb humans.
a strong galloping wind asterisks my hair 
before i go underneath. 
i told her not to follow me,
to let me take the trains alone.
i always leave alone like this.
standing right behind the yellow line
waiting for a monster 
to encourage my distances.
robot voice humming us. traveler traveler
with a huge (empty) suitcase
& three girls eating their own hands.
soon we will all be silences
or windowsills or whatever
our eyelids do with our thoughts.
i want a nice kitchen to hover in
& at least a sofa. when i leave like this
i get to imagine everyone else
still there as we were. still aching
in a dim room. still passing
a graveling microphone.
tables turning into pendants.
it is selfish i know to want
to preserve every memory. i ignore 
change & dissolution in favor
of still lives. as long as 
we don't leave together
i can leave everyone else there
all night if i have to. 
train windows are the only mirrors.
i peer at myself 
& the row across from me.
every symmetry is a betrayal. every train stop
a little kingdom in the night.
bodies exit the train. bodies enter.
dress shoes. suitcases. 
backpacks stuffed with apples. 
a shopping bag rustling.
when my stop comes
i'll linger on the platform 
until the train 
is just a glint.