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by Caitlin Wolper
the paint of white hallways
sprawled like ivy, dripped into
the anxious disquiet of silent
white doors whose black numbers
were stenciled and boxed with arrogant
impatience. Outside; a boy, but i could never
see his face from that third story bathroom window,
it was blocked by a branch, if not one, then another, the
only tree in Queens and he had found it, i could not see his face. on 44th, men in a dark red
car, their faces wrinkled like cigarette ash, sucked and bit and kissed at me from the window,
turning the corner, always turning, always slowing, never stopping, never stopping, i hoped.
sometimes when i rode the subway it pushed above the buildings and
i saw graffiti sketched just below rooftops and wondered at the
height while i sat in and watched the other boxes jolt along,
all contained, and the men in the bright silver car, their
faces folded like haggard laundry, sucked their teeth as
they settled into the harsh orange light and clung
to the metal bars in the chain gang of boxes
as though prison was just like this
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