On the Back of a Flyer

These lives are impossibly small
    in the filter of nicotene time,
    where seconds are impounded
    by the sweaty weight of headlights
    and aerosol voices make
    hours of children, held and released

in the misdemeanor of history.Shackled by traffic
    you speak in metered words; if I could
    drop a coin into your mouth, for
    fifteen minutes from ceaseless transit,
    I'd count you in quarters and accidental change.

I've scrawled your name over yellow-tinged subway maps
    lit by the taxicab moon.
    Years I've flicked in the ashtray of Greenwich
    under cinema billboards
    waiting for stars to appear.

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