train station benches
are made for smooth-talking lawyers
and the tom sawyers
of this world

i'm just a huckleberry finn
exchanging glances with a black guy, let's call him jim
that has worked at the subway
for as long as they were out of honeyoat bread

it's the smallest travels that change me
dragging my tired ass to the seven eleven
learning the solo to stairway to heaven
adjusting my jeans while women chatter about work

i turn the french existentialist masterpiece back on
listening to the ipod struggle to keep up
sucking the life out of an ice-filled cup
and hoping the sun will set before my dreams expire