Love on the DC Metro

The Japanese emperor would send a box
of fragile almond-white petals to his chosen consort.
But I have no such gifts. However,
I’ve been thoroughly hollowed out
so I have plenty of room for her
delicate hands and striped scarf.
I’m enthralled. From my balcony
I saw her dragon ships’ wide red sails
erupt from the horizon like tulips
on a blue mountainside. Her Vikings
threatened to burn down my home,
so I surrendered. They instead burned
down my neighbor’s house and built
a trading post, aggressively expanding
into the global market. Goods
for coin, vulgar people pecking
at smart-phones, all twisting
with vague anxiety. No one
has seen the conductor
yet the train still moves.
We eat our young on the Red Line.
According to many cannibalistic tribes,
women’s palms are the sweetest meat,
so we start with those.
Conversation moves quickly from hunger
to ourselves.  A man deftly separating
sweetmeat from bone describes eating
an entire Cessna 150 over two years,
one mouthful of metal, fabric, and circuitry
at a time. A pianist details placing a pistol
on the edge of his bench during performances
to quiet angry crowds. We glad-hand.
We sing Happy Birthday.
People wrap the leftovers in paper napkins
and squirrel them away in small purses
and pockets.  I dab my mouth dry
with the now unused striped scarf
and we all go back to our seats
for a quick nap before the next stop.


Jared Bajkowski currently resides in Washington DC with his fiance. He is a relapsed librarian and is currently obsessing over Andy Warhol and baseball.

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