my bus doesn't stop at yours anymore,
much less 82nd street,
which, even an ocean away, feels so much closer than it should.
and maybe that explains my foreign policy
because after all this attrition it's time to withdraw.
i know i know more than those cunts in charge -
with their false promises, fake problems and insidious smiles -
yet still they have the guts to say they care.
impatient at the red light i scratch your name
into my arm as police police the car crash up ahead
and i trace this fake tattoo with fingertips
stained from last weekend's cigarettes -
the come up from the come down
shuddered by the judder of the bus
as it rolls past the past.
it's may and i'm cold and i want to go home.