Why, on this hot
night,
when I lug my
thumping
guitar case
home, does
the bugles’ tired gurgle
mark my
arrival
in subway doors?
Across from me
two girls
munch
oniony sandwiches,
spread out over
the entire row.
They’re set for
the same long haul.
Even on this
matchless railway
I feel as if I
wander
without a song,
temple-filled
feedback—and,
as in broad
slapstick,
I am
left
(utterly)
alone.