Quincy Market
The PoetKing, Joe Garvey
It’s raining.
Atlantic Avenue is empty.
The pipe is already lit
in my hand.
I try to light it.
The flame shies away
from the bowl.
Tobacco falls hot
onto my wrist
and stays there.
I don’t brush it off.
I want to see how long
the skin can lie to the brain.
My knees take a step.
I am pulled into it.
The pavement shifts
just enough.
A car idles at the curb
longer than it should.
Engine steady.
The rain hits my face late.
I look down.
My legs are there
but I arrive in them after.
The bowl goes out.
My hand is still holding it.Someone moves behind me
keeping the same distance.
I don’t turn.
The lights stay on
where they don’t need to.
A register teeth-clicks
inside a hall
that hasn’t sold a thing.
A door shuts
somewhere it shouldn’t
and the sound carries.
I keep moving
past the loading docks
where the building
keeps its mouth open
to catch the gray.
If I stop
it will all reach me at once
and then
I am somewhere white
with straps that hold
before I understand them
something enters the body
and tells it to be quiet.