by Gary Hardaway
Once you descend, the third rail
hums its invitation
in a faint, persistent music
to which you are susceptible
between departures and arrivals
of all the noisy, dreadful
of oblivious crowds.
Remains of the Day
I'm working hard as I know how
to be the identified but unclaimed
body at the morgue.
I want to strangle your God in front of you,
hack His lifeless carcass into generous chunks
and feed them to the fish and carrion birds
starving for deliverance from hunger. But I can't.
Your God does not exist and has no body
with juicy organs, muscles, and marrow-rich bones.
If I could put my hands on your God
and kill Him in insistent, muscular ways,
I surely would.