Central to Suburbs to Central to Suburb: an extra $4.50

Forgotten Briefcase.
In the descent of angels, nothing matters.
 

*

 
Each Station lit with bayonets of

fluorescent light, empty train, stomach, head,

benches, head and still the whistle blows

the long day's end

challenging vagrant men

to roll over, stick a digit up

the sphincter of night's crow-black

arse.
As the train rolls my head bounces with a

do-do-do do-to-do do; a la Lou Reed

and the coloured girls, a glass

woodpecker hugging

a briefcase full of work.
I rub my neck and shoulders (check for the

stubs of my new wings)

see my breath

alive as frost on the glass

fashion wings that beat, breathe, erase,

design/redesign

with the stump of my fat finger,

I scratch inside

a whale like Jonah

wanting to fly,

excape

that sinking

feeling.