April Flowers Bud in Concrete

This city stings with transition.

Winter, to spring, to the sporadic zing of summer.

In the air, the static cling of sex sticks

to timid girls, overpriced garments cut above the knee

to men, with long, sticky jeans suctioned like honey to the waist

In a crowded subway, tangled in strangers

we refuse our own space, billow in like an angry orgy underground

knowing we are all members of the same species

but pretending we’re not.

Doors open, someone’s eyes undress and fuck me while my red fingernails

white knuckle the pole, I imagine an empty train

and your hands caressing my insides, but between 116^th and 125^th

the tunnel bursts from underground and the tracks expose to daylight,

the world looks dry and we will never see each other again.

This city stings with transition.

From Saturday nights, red lipstick and sadistic cigarettes to chase the vodka

making conversation in a bar, drowning in predacious conversation as a warm-up

to the better subject matter, the “where are you going later” matter, the

“I want to taste you” matter, the “we are young and animalistic” matter.

to the florescence of Monday morning, revealing the disorder,

shines light on the desire-full weekend,

the incense still crushed against porcelain tray, the pipe rests silent on the edge of the bed, clothes still drip off furniture from their initial tear.

This city stings with transition.