“Night Train” by Lia Mastropolo

It seemed new the first time–I had no claim to any property

and of all the times for a tidal wave of ice blue sky

this wasn’t right, the forest had been lit by glowing insects

since before I learned to recognize the thing I’d really wanted–

to ride the giant L of the subway from morning until night

with the other happy people, faces pressed to the filthy pane

dreaming the underground caves alive with creatures–

pale-eyed, deaf from the roar–who could love this city

from its flickering towers to its crumbling homes along the elevated rail

where somewhere princes steep instant soup in coffee mugs

and vampires pare their nails into the clogged plumbing

what this place means isn’t something figured or reduced, but rather

layered wallpaper over sheetrock that upholds a roof

in a manner of speaking an insect whose burning makes its own light.

Lia Mastropolo writes from Philadelphia. Mastropolo’s poetry has appeared in various print and online publications, including decomP, Squalorly, the Berkeley Poetry Review, and Full of Crow.