Waiting at Porter Station
Andrea England
You leave me for the commuter rail,
me in your blue velour waiting
for the red-line, dizzy from sex
and subway escalators. There's a pigeon
walking the platform, teetering down
the caution stripe. Everyone is watching,
sharing this bird. Last night on the train
you spoke of aesthetics. Two rows ahead of us,
two mouths pressed together upset you 
so much that the very air wrestled
through the tunnel with the must
of this morning's sheets. The pigeon drops below
sight-line. We're all on tiptoe down here,
curious of the grotesque, 
of what will remain of the bird after
the train signals its departure. I can't
look over so I'll wait for you here,
outside these deaths and small stations.
Andrea England holds a Ph.D in Creative Writing from Western Michigan University, where she teaches English and tutors athletes. Her first chapbook, INVENTORY OF A FIELD was recently published by FInishing Line Press. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Passages North, Harpur Palate, Zone 3, The Atticus Review, and others. She lives in Kalamazoo with her husband, three daughters, five hens, and a dog.

more by Andrea England:
Mary and the Hurricane