The bootleg Starbucks is closed
this early, but still smells
operational. I’m cold. I smell
the trees opening to new
chromatography. Five geese vee
a new foreground for the day.
Summer pulls my toes toward
some other region. Route 1
is a double stack. Rusted steel,
rusted steel. I have wings
and they are stainless.
Nothing holds me here
in Charlestown. The 426 bus
bows in and out of traffic, but
I’m faster. The bird that I am
is living. My feet, rusty pink,
resist what tugs them. Winter
gestates, for today, in wings
which are not mine. Concrete
courtyards, concrete buildings.
My thermos smells of coffee.
I own nothing, which is
what keeps me here.

Pen caps are too tough
a plastic to chew on.
Ten sticks of gum suffice
instead. I’m possessed

by the urge to retrieve
things. Declaratives.
Sticky notes unstick
from walls and cover

over their own memos
with floor tiles. I fold
my hangnails open.
I need to hang myself

to-do lists that will fall
down with my nail clippings
in the trash. I lose my place
in all my library books

when to-do lists split
from where they were
left to idle. I sever
hangnails with my teeth

sometimes. Score marks
on skin. Illegible. Plastic
whitens under pressure
from nervous jaws.

Chewing gum creases
in half-moons. Mastic
imprints. Tearing
sticky notes breaks

certain impulses
to relax. I tear into
my lip. I’ve lost
my place again.