Life Is But a Dream

Penn Station—they post the 3:01 express to Trenton—Track 7—we push on—give up private seat to find one by window—it’s shared she’s on her phone—they call out THIS IS THE 3:07 LOCAL TO TRENTON, EXPRESS TRAIN ON TRACK 4—we push out up the stairs a woman drops her bags a regular stampede—on the next train conductor says THIS IS THE 3:07 LOCAL—we know better than to call déjà vu—grunts and shouts of NOOOOOO—she corrects herself—I have a private seat I just barely edged out a guy

I tell my professor she forgot to post the materials I need for my presentation—she’s walking into her office I follow—inside it's a homey study windows opening out onto backyard—COME HERE, she says, LOOK—points out the window—a furry kindfaced creature pokes around the wooden fence—WHAT IS IT? I say ignorant of local fauna—A GROUNDHOG! she announces impressed—it’s 75 degrees early April—DOES IT ALWAYS HANG OUT BACK THERE?—YES BUT IT’S A LITTLE EARLY FOR IT TO BE SO FAT

In a floraless Jersey beer garden with the boys—under a starless sky, the one I’d recognize anywhere—joy of being anywhere young and drunk after only a few sips—o elixir of record-hot day desert-cool night—I demand a cigarette knowing no one will have one—no not totally sure about the Belgian—he offers none—DON’T SAY ‘MANWHORE’ IT’S SEXIST—so happy my Midwestern hard nasal a’s start to slip out—I let them—