Rust in Peace

***

Sometimes I tire
of driving this tank
peering out of
the periscope's
finite field of vision
turning this torso
lifting these limbs
these lead pipe legs
trudging through
too many muddy ruts
seeking solid ground
to gain traction
to move forward
through life's battles
hoping to find
a flowering field
to rust in peace.

***

Irish Pub

He sits with his back to me,
blue jacketed and tieless,
likely in his mid to upper fifties.
I see his face because of the
mirror at the back of the bar.
I can't help but notice how
slowly and deliberately he
reaches for his glass of beer,
as if he could miss it if he
is not careful and reach
past to where it is not. He
stares too long in the mirror.
He closes his eyes but a
slight wobble pops them open.
It's afternoon at an Irish Pub
in Midtown Manhattan.

Ghost Train

The F train wasn't running
due to a malfunction
and New Yorkers knew to
find a different mode
of transportation this
particular Sunday morning.
I am not a New Yorker
and the F train was my
only route to Liturgy on
the Lower East Side.
I stood by the tracks
at the 42nd street station
oblivious of my ignorance.
After 10 minutes the train
arrived and I boarded
without qualm or incident.
Emerging at 2nd Avenue
a man quickly bore down
on me to ask if the F train
was, in fact, running now.
I assured him that it carried
me to where we now stood.
After Liturgy the priest said
that many were missing
because the F train did not
get running until after 10am.
Having arrived at 8:45am
I couldn't help but think,
"What the F?"