everyone is briefly important 
on the 5:15pm train to far rockaway. 
all the businessmen
have  smaller businessmen 
inside their brief cases meanwhile
i just have a casket inside my backpack.
don't worry no one is dead yet
we're just all preparing for funerals.
you never know when someone 
might need transporting 
to their place in the soil.
i text you when i should really 
be texting God. i say, "the men here
smell like knives." 
through the windows
i become a video game. in between stops 
the businessmen try to sell 
each other's houses. they say:
i could make a mountain out of
that doorway. one brushes my elbow
i worry about the contagiousness 
of their angular faces--the way 
their cuff links pin each man to himself.
they cough into silk handkerchiefs.
i eat a granola bar & wipe 
the crumbs from my thighs. 
the business men don't believe 
in ghosts or saturdays. they don't trust
the knuckles of strangers &
the smaller businessmen 
are all losers--
people just like themselves
who failed a deal. what has 
shrunken you? i once lived a whole year
the size of an ear bud. there's not
enough foliage to keep anyone safe.
the businessmen come & go
taking some of their shoulders with them.
i take off my belt & use it 
to hold the sun in place. it's not allowed
to be dark yet. after all i am 
only an hour old. the train 
chokes on our shoe laces. the train
spits us out one by one, me 
& all the businessmen &
their tinier colleagues. 
i am apprehensive about a future elevator.
i soon going to be fodder for a door.
walking past businessmen houses
& businessmen churches,
i am always careful.

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