looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system
in the still of the moonset
or the daily twist of sun
before the fuses of revolutions are lit
and the sparkplugs firing and firing,
everything's in its place.
every sock
every tooth
every footstep rests an imprint.
everything has theirsthen
the ring of a bell
and epilepsy of turnstyles
and melting of train tracks,
malleable to the hammering of briefcase mallets
and necktie chiselshanging on
hanging onto rails and seat tops we move,
hanging on we move,until a cog
until a spoke is bent,
and askew runs the train, twisting away from mobius,
churning about itself and charring anguish
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
it comes to a halt.
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
everything comes to a halt
shivering discomfort
staring into the light of an oncoming chevrolet,
on course to run over routine.there's a hit and run
a hit,
then run, bolting away from the scene.over the intercom, neutral
"looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system"
eyes don't shift, and balances remain,
while the frantic woman somewhere goes cold.
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
there's a black leather coat lost in the system
a black leather coat
buttered and jammed in the wheels that are turning, impaled on the
track.
a black leather coat
with buttons of bone, pressed face down to the floor beneath moving feet
a black leather coat
and a zipper now torn away from the seams
away from the seams and the lining and stiches
looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
squealing and blind
looking for a nipple
looking for a woman
looking for a black leather coat.
lost in the system
squealing and blind
lost in the system
while the sparkplugs are firing
and firing and firing
and it's lost in the system
everything has theirs
but she won't get hers
lost in the system
shivering discomfort
staring into the lamp of an oncoming car
lost in the system
a pig stuck with knife in its side
hanging on as we move
hanging on to the places
those places we hold to our breasts,
those places routine as the daily moonset
those places we count on to be beneath feet
until the hit and run
until the squealing and blind
until the spokes bend
and the weight of the cog is too much
and the teeth break in two
and we find ourselves looking for a black leather coat
lost in the system
like a stuck pig
lost in the system
lost in the system
lost in the system
lost.
Daniel Weinshenker is a creative writing graduate student at CU-Boulder. His work has appeared in The Free Cuisenart, Pif, Eclectica, and many editor's waste baskets and fireplaces. He subscribes to the theory that history doesn't repeat itself, but rather that we repeat history, and he usually manages to dress himself. This poem was previously published online in Writer's Block where it won an award. Write him at theshenk@aol.com.
