Wednesday, August 17, 2005



My head rests jasmine,
against the glass window.
Across from me,
an awkward man
sits down like grass. A notebook
on his lap, he shifts and skid marks.

I look out the window but I want to look at his crotch.

This soft shell fidgets.
I look outside, lights flash
inside the tunnel. I look
the other way, past his finger tips. I feel hot
in that stomach. I look back
at him like a compass
pulled to center.
It doesn't feel natural.

I look and see
his awkward fingers. It's there,
everything is there. His purple meat and an old lady asking for change.
In his fat hands. They
won't stop for this one. A wet napkin
with sad purple balls. I saw it.
I stand up in the moving carriage
and point my finger, like an evangelical,
at his weak spot:


Other people stare
but don't move. This wet napkin, though,
he jumps, shoving it all
back into his fly, he blood rushes
out the door as soon as it opens.
Before I can spit or point again.

That fat, soft shell wet napkin
with purple balls is on his way,
and I am pissed.

By Angela Phipps Towle
1974- August 2005

Angela, Thank you for all of your encouragement. I'll miss you.


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