Commuting to a Job

Here's a poem written at work in Palo Alto, after a lady killed herself
 on the morning of 13th February, 2007. It is possible to tell that I was
about to quit my job. I did, exactly 10 days after, because the interview
on the 16th went very well, and I got cocky.

It took me two months to find another job. Writing fake blog entries.
Which I did, by the hundreds...about burgers and sports watch, about
 video-chat software and a new animated series. The damned animated series
 went on to make a shit-load of money. I hain't seen not a dime of it.



Commuting

On Sunday, we gathered with ground meat and the
heat of chilies and garlic and masala, laughing at
misshapen dollops of meat in dough. On Monday, I
went to work still smelling of cooking with friends.

I was patient at work, although I wondered how
many days before I had money for lunch, how
long before I could see the dentist, and constanly
I wondered if I wouldn't be unhappier the next day.

On Tuesday, I ran to the station. The southbound train had
stopped two hundred yards to the east, and consequently,
the northbound was delayed. Cop-cars blinked on the tracks.
Everybody watched them. Some became so bored

They first toed the yellow line, then jumped down,
balancing on the tracks, arms flapping like birds
on a pylon, shading their eyes to look eastward, casually
climbing back to the platform as if they hadn't trespassed.

Full thirty seven minutes past the schedule, the hurried row
of amber displays announced a train four minutes away, on
its way. The cop-cars had vanished.- Although the southbound
stayed, rails hummed as a train tried to keep the air solid.

A warm and rustic voice said over the PA: "We apologize for
the delay. A fatality has occurred this morning outside
Mountain View station. We'll promptly be on our way."
The living must have felt relief. Wednesday was a fine day.