On Being Called a Drug Addict

the wheels just thumped a jazz beat (and it woke me from sleep- with my Lunch Poems) that made me think I was somewhere else like the drug- stores that all look the same inside only nothing like that nausea. (not the sweat I get from the stale air- conditioning not that prefab disorient from offwhite prefab aisles that all twist in the same direction, all born in weak perfection). the startling rhythm displaced me; its syncopated thump contused me and left these little ugly rainbows on my arms and that tattoo really goes at the start from each station but here the cadence has slowed (like the wagon wheels in an old movie that spin the wrong way) as we move backward it sounds more like a train, more humane. The wheels catch their groove and the pace relaxes the bumps disappear - it sounds more like a train.