1.

"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls..."

Next to anarchy signs, four-letter expletives and

phone numbers for a good lay, I lay

down.

I think of you each morning, how your

body decided it despised you and

betrayed you with cancer.

Your organs, your blood cells, your soul--

all volunteered to host the tumor,

like quartering Redcoats in colonial America.

I think of colonial America as the people

pass in front of me, kicking my trite trinkets

and flipping coins in my general direction.

Martha Washington would have housed me,

fed me soup and nursed me.

Martha Washington's descendants will have

nothing to do with me.

I wish they would get cancer.

I wish I had a

blanket, and

I think of you each morning when the

metro makes its first stops and

passengers of the world exchange glances--

Arabs passing Mexicans,

Mexicans passing Indians,

Indians passing Britons,

Britons passing African (Americans).

How seldom we belong.