Not Far Underground

The city had grown ugly

in my absence. No one looked ballroom—

there was no spinning across the floor

in subway light. And the smell

of piss-stained corners

no longer proved a comedy—

I wasn’t twenty-four

and laughing all the way

at the double-take man:

Having a trip, having a trip?

Acid or weed? Acid or weed?

Who knows where he crashed

or whether the drugs hid kindness.

The concert was over,

my ears were ringing and fuzzed,

and I knew where I was

sleeping that night.

To try and recall it now

I’d have to drag a body

from the lake. I’d have to grant

entrance to the cheap theater

of my mind. Maybe you’ve seen

this picture before? I wouldn’t blame

anyone who didn’t care to watch.

I hear you have your own troubles

slapping you awake.

Flipped a turnstile, walked downstairs

and the walls and my lungs

didn’t collapse. Imagine that?

If we were seated together

you wouldn’t have known

a thing was wrong.

We shot through the tube

like an experiment. No one’s

more terrified than when

stuck in a tunnel.

I told myself it was just one stop.

Shouldn’t we all be panicked?

Don’t you have something to lose?

I only had to ride five minutes.

Got off—released and rushed

giddy into night, an easy walk

toward home and only once

looked over my shoulder.