Hostile Architecture
We huddle closer
to the space heater,
close enough that the sparks
will singe our blankets.
“It’s a cult,” you say.
“It feeds on the homeless.”
I look out our grimy window
at the shelter next door,
the turned-away
who press themselves closer
to the chimney the city installed
over the heating grate.
“And you know,” I say,
“someone will come take them.”
Not all, but one, maybe two.
Tonight, as every night.
one sits in the doorway
of the abandoned vape shop next door,
threadbare blanket clutched to her chest.
tomorrow, or the next day,
someone will find her,
cyanotic, on the church steps,
sacrificed to a hungry god
who thrives on the cold.
The Worms
Metropolis, Part 11
I
He paused in the doorway,
remembering the night before.
In the doorway, clutched
together, hard
and slow,
her hair like blood
trickling down his chest
as his love trickled
down her thigh.
Now, the morning.
Through the doorway,
the blast of air conditioning
even in winter
assaulting his hair and face.
Into the worms' cavern,
the platform, blue-white
tile, pristine, cold glare.
It's crowded,
as always,
bodies in suits
and a wino or two.
Spare some change for the magistrate?
The customary quarters,
no corned beef sandwich today.
They smile, move apart.
He moves to the front of the platform.
Fading now:
Spare some change for the magistrate?
Some disturbance in the back,
jostling, pressing
he's on the yellow line
Hey, man, I'm the magistrate!
You makin' a mistake!
I'll get ya back,
you'll see,
you'll see...
An elbow,
a missed ledge.
He always knew
the worms would come
for him.
II
The magistrate
now outside his kingdom
sits,
a frown begging
its way onto his forehead.
A form,
blurred feet:
Spare some change for the magistrate?
He looks up:
her face is soft, fresh,
framed with red so deep
it's almost blood
her eyes, the purest Midori
poured into a freckled shotglass
she is clutching a brown paper bag
to her purple halter top,
breasts straining
under a denim jacket
she stops,
digs in a pocket
of her tight grey jeans,
shaping her thighs,
muscular (it must be from sex,
lucky guy)
She digs out a bill,
passes it, smiles:
I'll vote for you.
She goes on
to battle the coldness.
Next come the cops,
and the magistrate presses himself
into the doorway
but they run past
then the ambulance
and the men in white
as clean as the magistrate's kingdom.
III
Carrying his forgotten lunch,
she braves the cold, clutches
her jacket to her chest
down the stairs, jostled
by police and paramedics
she wonders idly what's the matter
on the platform,
faceless men in business suits
milling, confused
a train is stopped,
unmoving
sitting, hissing
in its niche,
it seems it may never
move again
one last hiss
and the train dies
a swarm of uniforms
masses into the tunnel
like lemmings
looking for his sneakers
and tweed overcoat
in this sea of pinstripes,
she doesn't see him
curious,
she moves
towards the edge of the platform;
just a quick look,
she can find him soon.
Police
paramedics
a lumpy sheet stained red
a black sneaker
she drops the bag,
and it rips:
a shattered glass
bottle of soda,
liquid spreading,
soaking the bag.
She falls to her knees,
Midori spilling
down her cheeks
IV
All those cops
and no one's busting the magistrate
so he slips back
into his kingdom.
Confusion,
everyone's moving
but going nowhere
the beautiful girl is moving,
falling to her knees
possibly in prayer
to the now-silent worm
on its track
he goes to her
and she is crying
there's something on the track
in front of the train
it's red and surrounded
by cops
and she's staring at it.
The magistrate sits,
legs dangling over the side
next to the girl
he was your man
the magistrate says
She nods, causing
a shower
of tears onto her jacket
Hand on her shoulder,
he rummages
in a few pockets
pulls out her now-crinkled dollar
Here, girl.
Lemme buy ya a cup of coffee.
She nods, rises,
stains spreading
on track and platform.