Dead in Your Tracks

Once it's said--it's done.
You can't get back what's been
crammed into a tight space like a sugar packet
left on the floor of a Porta-Jon.
When you lean down to pick up a lucky penny
you get hit on the head with a bumper, permanently
dazed on Atlantic Avenue waving hysterically
at couples in Blue Marble warning them
not to argue while the going is good
it tilts and then your credit goes bad
and you're a heap of tissues and cough syrup
next to the expressway with Bach.
Language is good for a lot of things
but none of them come to mind as I climb
the six flights with a Trader's Joe bag tight in my hand.
Like a seashell holds the sound of the ocean
an empty apartment holds onto shouting
and messes. Those apparitions will destroy you
if you let them. One day it'll all seem okay again
and the sun will hold you in it's rays until you
catch a glimpse of yourself
at Hoyt Street stopped dead in your tracks
it was someone else.