Poem: Gold Line

 Gold Line

 

riding the gold line in the heights.

wai sang’s meat factory oozes by,

opposite a taqueria

and mattresses in a culvert.

 

a women in front of me

minimizes her seat,

limbs clutched and crossed,

more gridlock than skin,

as if to say,

there’s no warmth

without a key …

 

because of the unsaid violence

of the men

 

who box her in,

torpid as zombies,

one a knight with a cell-phone shield,

and a long-sword of a tie;

the rest of them bulky yet without weight,

hunched into the fate of the shabby,

chins a coastline of scruff.

 

the roof of the mouth of union station

never ceases to yawn,

despite so many piercings of beam.

beyond the mahjong of column and floor,

alameda street waits and, lucky us,

flaunts its crown jewels today:

paintings by pollock and ronthko,

one mad, one serene,

caged by a blueness of security guards.

 

 

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12.24.24  mods

Lincoln Heights, LA, circa 90's