Walking Hopper - a prose poem
I was walking at the corner of Irving and Sheridan. Cabs, buses, cars bled with a scab of gray belch low in the gelid air. Above, a draught of light spilled out of the Redline, spilled lanky into the coffee of the night. It was then that I saw her, strobed in amber as the train banged itself taut and fleeing. I watched her decay velvet down the platform stairs. I stood gum on the sidewalk before ticked-out commands. Walk. Don't Walk. Walk. Don't Walk. Stirring a light thick with the vermouth of spent grease, she poured into the street and came toward me. It was then I saw her, tepid and far. I no longer heard the flickering scrape of the El, nor did I smell the burnt hashbrowns of the New Crystal Diner. I heard only a vague distant wind, smelled only the lurid musk of Obsession and rot as she passed beyond the veil of my brim.