observation deck

She tells me I should get an umbrella

I am soaked to the bone

A grandmother would tell me I'd catch myself a cold

But I relish the feeling of my garments hanging like heavy robes and my hair plastered to my face

She tells me I should go buy a towell downstairs and wipe my forehead so it doesn't shine so much in the lamplight

But I stand in the shoes that are now sponges and I walk on water

Biblical or not

I relish the feeling

I tell her she needs to drop her umbrella off the roof

It's one of those that are clear and dome shaped

Whenever I see someone's head shielded from the elements by that clear vinyl protection, I can't help but think of a fetus in a womb

Well, where else would a fetus be

But the thought remains

She won't drop the umbrella off the roof

But she agrees to let it fall to the tiled pavement

Her yellow parka glistens, as she tells me we shouldn't be out here

"We shouldn't be out here, my feet feel like slugs and my hands like glass"

I tell her I have no clue what that means

"I have no clue what that means, my head feels like a lightning rod..."

And she stops me there

She tells me I have a tendency to go to poetry too soon

Too quickly

I look for poetry in everything I tell her

And she calls me hopeless

She tells me that I look for poetry and all I usually find is bloated metaphor

How did we get to this topic

Fetus to bloated metaphor

A combination of sorts as the sky pelts straws at us

I tell her nothing anymore 

One step after one name

Another step after one want

One hand movement on the desire

And two heads meet like discharging lightning rods

Violent electrical attraction surges as lips become conduits

I have a tendency to resort to bloated words in moments

But moments of electricity deserve hot, pulsing, swelling, sparking intention

She tells me we should go

I tell her nothing

We leave and buy those towels so our foreheads don't shine in the the lamplight

The elevator ride down to the street level is cramped with customers and the smooth beats of Kenny G.

Our doors open and we're alone again on this train platform again

I wait to go home

She waits to go back to the hospital

We wait and let the air pulse electric

I have a tendency to go to poetry even in waiting

She lets the air pulse electric

And her body sways to me and I can put my head on her chest

And wait for that train as she tells me the train schedules for the next three weeks

Fine 

I tell her

We'll take the 3:57 next time

Good

She tells me, then you'll be home in time to take in your laundry

She tells me, keep pressing those shirts and keep a crisp collar

I tell her, those are words to live by

We've found words to live by