An orangutan with a beer

There is something in

the way we stretch

when a subway is empty

that may be the closest

we get to contentment

found in the in between of

then and now,

where we are and where we need to go,

and where, too, we can go if we

got off here instead of there.

*

Ecstasy is

killing me,

and boredom

offers moment for

taxes, work, and the hope

that there will be death

in dignity,

or at least

a place to call my home,

a place to place my heart,

a place where I can crawl into,

sponged with drink,

and wail, squeeze, and masturbate

like an orangutan peeling

a banana that is already bruised.

*

The modern paradox is that

everyone seems so intent

on going home in the evening

only to be intent

to work again

in the morning.