I'LL BE GOING
I'll be going to the city, but I'm
not sure why. The clackety-clack
of the train brings no comfort,
not while I'm stuck in the Jersey
meadows again and someone
nearby keeps on talking those
quiet-car blues. Can I get, a
refund please on this trip?
When I enter the house, or the
place, they all live (you can't call
it a house there), I already know
it will smell like food - some
swank passel of the crap they eat.
'I'm on a starvation diet,' I'll tell
them, 'and I want nothing now.'
Little do they know I'm in trouble:
trying to lose a gifted fifteen pounds
or so. When you're a turnstile jumper
like me, every extra ounce counts.