Sometimes I need a day like this
to remind why I don’t carry a gun

today is the kind of day
that makes a trigger finger restless
a breathing exercise useless
and this business of anger management
run straight into the ground

the kind of day
that reminds me of the difference
between being unsociable and being antisocial
between an empty room alone at home and a subway shooting spree
today is a plea bargain waiting to happen

today my mantra changed from kill or be killed
to kill or be bored, like war may not be the answer
but it sure does make
for some nice entertainment

today truth is tattooed onto our tongues with dirty needles
sanity is sealed over handshakes with the devil
subway wanted signs post the pictures of my heroes

today fear stopped being afraid
and decided it was okay to start hitting back

today necessity bitch-slapped idealism
and told him that it was time to grow up
there are burgers to be flipped
and bills to be paid, trade your youth
for a hairnet and orthopedic shoes
read the clues of where your pension went
in your boss’s crossword smile

today hunger will devour the big apple whole
the city that never sleeps will go to bed without a meal

today fists are clenched like loaves of bread
knuckles worn like paved-over pastures
lukewarm smiles left to simmer too long
hands bruised the color of dreary city skies
reasons for getting out of the apartment

passing me by like cabbies
who ignore potential fares
preferring instead
to stalk the green of this pigment
with lures of
“do you know where you are?” and
“you should not be out in East New York after dark.”

Some days I just find it difficult
to romanticize urine soaked stairwells.

I’m running out of graceful ways to say no
to the fifth stranger on the block
brandishing an empty pocket like a weapon
to ask me for a cigarette a dollar my soul
sex smoke salvation, for the shoes
the shirt on my back that I already gave
to a guy two blocks back
who didn’t even stop
to say thank you.

Today charity feels like a crucifixion.
a punch in the face feels like a baptism.
today a kiss or a hug
          sounds like an act of vandalism.
today every “yo mama” joke
          will end in an abortion.
my future running the risk
          of becoming an orphan
in a marathon I’m destined to lose.
making love, face to face with the brick
of these walls, my favorite position in bed
is no longer the fetal position.

my favorite hobby
no longer the great metropolitan pastime
of avoiding eye contact
and mumbling under my breath.

My favorite food
no longer the taste
of blood in my mouth.

I’m tired of biting my tongue.

Matthew Charles Siegel is a New York City transplant.  Most days, he is a healthy transplant, but some days he feels like a rejected organ and writes poems about it.  He wrote this one on an MTA bus.  A social worker from the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn by day, he is a curmudgeon by night, and considers the MTA his mortal nemesis.  He walks to work.

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