An Associate in the Rain
She’s a Chimera of A woman I decided,
While standing in front of her, in front of a floor to ceiling window
In front of a fantastic storm that I am sad to see is dying slowly
And painfully with the lungs of a smoker.
She has a striking silhouette against the bruised grey sky,
Sharp, cosmic shoulders and long arms with pointed fingers
and square nails. Her suit is unflattering in a sharp way, a simple swath of black
and pinstripes. The storm has been throttled, by her presence,
above her building. But in the distance I can see it statically flickers in and out
of being alive, and well.
She is sick I decide (I tell her she looks well and takes the sparkling water)
she knows I am lying. She is like a metal, not tinny or steely or silvery
Those are ordinary people, ordinary metals. She is like tungsten, I’m not sure what it is but it fits.
I also don’t know what kind of fruit spasms at the bottom of the glass she gave me.
(I sip) it tastes citrusy. She’s cut it into the shape of a cube, an unnatural fit
Making the flesh look demented, it’s a curved thing, Miss you can’t cut it square,
I shout at her when she closes her ears.
I have a feeling she can hear what I think, so I try to stop thinking. But
I accidently choke on the freak-of-nature-that-is-the-poison she put in my glass so she hands me
a napkin. (I blow my nose into it) Now I have a snotty tissue, I don’t know what to do with it,
so (she turns her head as the storm comes near again) I shove it in my pocket.
I think she knows, so I won’t reference it again.
She turns around and I realize her flesh has dissipated, evenly around her child-with-scissors
built frame. She is dying, I think, against the hysterical clouds. I watch her but I can’t move.
The glass she is holding slips and at that precise moment her impeccably installed floor to ceiling windows
Implode. And I drowned. like in a submarine. Overcome by the rain.
At the Station
I hope that you’ll get to walk with me some day.
We can have coffee in that bar
By the reservoir, and admire the picture that
Clear cold air makes with steam and fingerprints.
We can hide from the salt and pepper muzzle of time
Sipping frothy cappuccinos as the humidity tips the
Scale into rain.
And when it snows, we can talk about the children
Of our friends, pretend they are ours in a nice,
Non-obtrusive way. We can be scared together,
Sitting in the stomach of the fish, realizing that
We truly are hidden from time.
The rest of the world will grow old against the glass.
And when we’ve missed the train, all there will be
Is the reprieve of waiting, enjoying the bed of roses
That are tabloids and chocolate and pigeons
on the empty railway tracks.
Age 14, Grade 9
Hunter College High School