Yonge Street Station

Yonge Street Station

subway doors slide                        open

marie

old woman    steps               in

chewing                                    dragging

on                        a cigarette                        on

a wart                                      a suitcase

lingerie hacking spitting out

epitaphs

fidel

young lad                                 jeans painted on his legs                        cuban heels

smoking red hair                                          cinder hanging from his lips

suicidal freckles diving

off the bridge

of his nose

grin filling the gap in his teeth                        catches                        marie’s lazy eye

drags her                        languid smile

to his

room

where he rapes her dress

discards her body

on a mattress                                                    showers                         her breasts with kisses

and

shaves

are you still here? fidel asks

i’ve got no place to go marie responds

eveyone’s got some place fidel says                        but your’s isn’t here

marie drags her suitcase

down

fidel’s laughter rips open her heart                                        the

stairs

and into the street

where the streetcars are vacant

and the street cleaners

are sweeping up the tears.