B Train Dissonance and New York Lullaby

On rural Route Nine just before twelve,
Lights wound around the airport road,
But covered in slippery spring rain,
Hyde Park had darkened before ten.
One apartment was the only thing awake,
And really alive.
(All of the above surpassing the alphabetization of Boston’s Back Bay.)
When she’s home,
She’s really home.
Corona in one hand,
Marlboro in the other,
Sprawled across the lap
Of any of the seven guys
Who were never
"Those"
Kinds of guys.
(Interesting, though, she had kissed five of them.
A dare.
A mistake in judgment
Too many shots of Goldslager
Desperation and temporary insanity
But one,
One had almost been love.)
She smiles,
Sighs,
Pleased
To be away from the screeching halt of trains.
Content
To let cigarette smoke seal cardiac fissures.
Happy
To let barley and hops empty her brain.
Ecstatic
To be "one of the guys."
She reaches above her to crack the blinds and stare at the rain.
On the back of the couch
Just near her elbow
Almost within her reach
Is the needle and thread
Belonging to the fabric of fate.
It hums with the desire to weave a new and defining stitch,
But it goes unnoticed among the beer, the smoke, the testosterone.
The sounds of the
New York Lullaby.