/lit/ - Literature

Mid-August Daydream

One day, I foresee it, I’ll die on the subway,
Whether dry-throated, slow-cooked, or pickled in brine.
After a lifetime of rushing from here to there,
If I’m lucky, perhaps, I’ll have a moment to pray.

I’ll be calm when it happens, because I foretold it,
I tell myself hoping to make those words true.
Somebody will say: Henry has died on the train.
Someone else, caring casually, will ask gently: Who?

Selfish, I’d like to go alone when it happens,
Though I know better than to make such enormous requests.
I’d like to go at four or so, to delay no one’s trip,
Near the end of the line, after everyone’s left.

One day, I’ve foretold it, I’ll die on the subway,
The steel car my one and only makeshift grave.
I know it’s much to ask that it swallow me and me only,
But please, for me: spare the masses in just this one way.

Below, the city’s throbbing veins
Will clog and burst: then let me drain.

Mid-August Daydream

One day, I foresee it, I’ll die on the subway,
Whether dry-throated, slow-cooked, or pickled in brine.
After a lifetime of rushing from here to there,
If I’m lucky, perhaps, I’ll have a moment to pray.

I’ll be calm when it happens, because I foretold it,
I tell myself hoping to make those words true.
Somebody will say: Henry has died on the train.
Someone else, caring casually, will ask gently: Who?

Selfish, I’d like to go alone when it happens,
Though I know better than to make such enormous requests.
I’d like to go at four or so, to delay no one’s trip,
Near the end of the line, after everyone’s left.

One day, I’ve foretold it, I’ll die on the subway,
The steel car my one and only makeshift grave.
I know it’s much to ask that it swallow me and me only,
But please, for me: privatize transit in just this one way.

Below the city’s throbbing veins
Have clogged, have burst: so let me drain.