cradle
the derelict kids
keeping running up and down
the subway can length
they’ve made it their own marathon
there are four of them
they sound like elephants
although their old man is able to sleep peaceably
having done is job by spreading his rotten seed
the mother keeps trying to calm the kids
she’s sitting across from dad
shouting in a voice that i can only compare
to rusted metal scraping off of sandpaper
and i’m a man who hates metaphors
but of course the kids aren’t listening
they are breathless at mile eleven
one of the kids has taken to squeezing
the other one’s head
his scream is piercing and defies
all that i’ve ever known about the human voice
i suppose it’s wrong to condone violence these days
but i wish the mother would just grab one of the kids
or have the dad wake up
grab the slow one, no, the oldest one
and whack them until they start to cry
it would send a nice message to the other kids
and to us poor saps stuck here with them
but dad keeps sleeping and mom keeps yelling
the kid getting his head squeezed is on the verge of passing
out
while two of the others
start swinging on subway poles
while in a desperate act of self-preservation
i take my vodka bottle from down between my feet
and hold it to my chest
like a helpless infant or a lover
as the train conductor whispers
sweet nothings into my ear
by calling out the name of my stop.
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