Station Mistress by Alma Twerski

ROWS of pierced roses on the pedestal, hapless owls on the staircase, and then she by the entrance. Many shrugged by while others photographed with their indecent eyes. Trains could not derail if the veil was lifted. And so, each day of the station went by. Older than themselves men sat in the crumpled station corners. Their whiskers drooped by.
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I had this sensation of floating through space, as if I was… free.
When you’re a kid they make you feel watched, they tell you about God and Santa and other imaginary creatures bigger than your own thoughts and now it’s not really viable that those things exist anymore they tell you that the whole world is watching you.

They told me that there are ten thousand cameras in London, that you take any route through the city and in one hour you’re captured on over a thousand of them. As they told me this I saw a camera in my mind’s eye, whirring to focus and swivelling its head, all the silent menace of a doll brought to life.

Don’t think you’re the only bastard who ever suffered—
just write as if you were.
—William Logan
This was originally written
with fountain pen—curséd sink leaking
cursive ink. Something about floods
frustrates storms under the skull. No one gave
the writer an advisory warning.

I saw a painting that said
“both and neither” or, should I say,

titled—or maybe “botched” and “nether”
no matter how long            and I

cook, prone to depression
smoking clean the house is art

and I          am so happy being
un—there is cradling

the dog all day, and unknowing you
while you’re not painting
all the while