In a Station of the MetroMichael Gushue
Conrad tangles his commute, hardens his heart contra eye contact, gets pulled maelstromward, peels out towards open water, barnacles himself to the perfect platform spot, sledges through closing train doors, gets anchovied into place. Released upstream, Conrad hurdles rapids turnstiling outflow. Turbulence boils up to the air, Conrad in tow. Out on the pavement, in the bite of the air, the winter light syrups the streets. Conrad’s gulag slog slows. He stalls. Along the empty boulevard, the sun butters windows apricot, glazed streets a wash of copper, gold leaf. For just this moment, Conrad is an axe with a broken haft, a bent nail, a lost word migrating to its hall of shadows. These are the days of abandonment. These are the days we believe in, because these are the days we have.
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