I didn�t take the bus to Blooming Glen, Pennsylvania and sit
with Alexandria in a booth at Ruby Red�s for nothing.
She had no idea how much I adored the ride I carried
two books with me, one of them a dictionary, I didn�t check
a word in it. I recited Lincoln. Of everyone that passed,
the kid in a mini-van made a point; with a finger he told me

to fuck myself. I think the white collar and the blue
tie pissed him off. I was trying to give one life a rest
and resume the other one, my top button was undone,
that�s a start. I didn�t understand how to open the window
in case of an emergency. I followed the lines along my palm,
one went back to New York, God knows where

the rest went. The other book had everything I needed
to know about protest � one man stitched his lips shut,
another tried to drive a nail through his own palm;
they were heading to ministry; no one there could be reached
for comment. I want to describe the mouth as �tender,�
I mean well, there aren�t too many other ways

to explain the white sores along the gum that come
with a denture, my Four score and seven years slurred,
the tongue caught in a small niche between the plate
and the roof whenever it shifted to roll an �r.� I loved
one phrase in particular, I was attached.



�2007 by Frank Matagrano
first published in 3 AM Magazine