I’ve been on the Amtrak platform waiting
three years for the delay to subside
and every second fucking person
I stand beside points to my suitcases
and tells me I’m bringing the baggage with me,
don’t I know? I’m renting a cabin
to rent time to rent a home
that only feels like home
because I’m set to leave it,
because I’ve lied about how many times
I’ve taken off to return to myself—
another autopsy-as-aphorism; another drink, draw of the weight,
drag of the cigarette whose smoke will linger
pointedly in background as the train pulls away.
They always think I’ll wave to them.
They always think I sit in the window
seat because I want to feel the series of tomorrows
flicker against my face without having to chase them.
It’s only that when you’ve sat in yesterday
for as long as I have, everything around you looks like motion
to slip on. A flare mistaken for
for expansion mistaken for a wildfire channeled.
I always look to burn
out to see how the skeleton holds.
