On the west side
near the bus terminal
on the overpass overlooking a sea
of retired train cars, tucked in rail
They were captives at the station,
a soft spray of Hudson River water
slowly rusting their bodies.
It’s an imperceptible shift, from motion
to stillness, but the turnover
will wreck your brakes.
With the sun so high overhead and the
clear wind watering my eyes, it looked
like the gas station’s sign read:
“Kill Mart” instead of “Mobil Mart.”
And don’t the avenues feel wider each time
you cross them?
I was waiting for the green light,
thinking about a time
in my life when I rode every feeling
like a bus out to the limit, just
to see how far it could take me.
The end of the line is a lonely magical
space even though its pizza places and
newstands look just like the ones in
What freedom, I thought,
to let your thoughts take up all the space
in the world.
What a limited definition of freedom.