Found on the A train, two
humans dress as love stains
crawl into each others laps to sop up the
carnage of spit.
Mouths break their fasts on each other,
carelessly-shaped lips move back and forth like
typewriter travel.
There are no letterpress invites for their
tongues to RSVP.
Sometimes,
mouths just know what other mouths are looking for.
Four
minutes earlier they barely understood each other’s teeth,
yet
here they are on plastic subway seats sending bits of forgotten food down
throats.
The
one in buttons dances fingers into the other’s hair, aftertaste of coconut
milk.
The
one with poison ivy hidden beneath shirt panics about last bath date.
Buttons
begins to think of recent ex-girlfriend who could tie three cherry stems
together using only her tongue.
During,
molars and fillings are investigated.
After,
both contemplate an exchange of phone numbers but silently decide against.
Before,
they were just two strangers sitting on the same train toward differing parts
of Brooklyn, high off the pungent smells of loneliness, looking to feel
something other than that.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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