Wax Museums

In the tube when the lights go off deaf gods dole out tardy paychecks to the blind. In sobbing strangers and spermless men. In light trenchcoats that obliquely tell the city to shut up.

In the metro when the sun is strong enough to reach underground women exchange words. Communicating between languages. How to get to the Eiffel tower. Lick the penis of the world.

In the cafes. Smudgy faces draw upon trolleys and bicycle chains. The bells are rung. Mediocre sirens warning the lost to speed up their pace. In the haze of drug that drapes the city. A sheer nylon of high stuck on the foot of a windmill. An empty needle hanging from the arm of an unconscious country.

On the train. On the way to nowhere. Sober on airport Burger King. Sober on time changes. Profoundly resilient. Profoundly weak.

Navigating the underground. Paying for tickets. To places I'd never visit. The yellow lights warning us to prepare to go. All the streets like an open bridge. And us waiting for the ship to pass.