My old girlfriend would never ride subways,
terrified it would crack thick scars, release
visions of her mother running away
just as the car door wrenched shut, a wild, pleased
flare to her eyes, glaring back at her child,
five years old and screaming, face and hands pressed
like fresh batter against the window, wild
herself with panic, fear-serrated chest
heaving to spews of vomit as the car
lurched away. The bitch would always relent,
grab a cab to two stops uptown, just far
enough to meet the train, weep and repent
as she’d lift my future love in her arms,
rasping lies of how she really meant no harm.
Roger Armbrust
July 6, 2002
