Reading on the TTC

All I understand of the commander’s announcement is thank you for your patience.
The rest is an odd blur like a murmur of velvet seats in a passing car
Or speech within a dream,
Neither here, nor there.

Books are good now, they feel like company. The train halts right as I finish the introduction to Assata :

It is our duty to win.

In the story in which you were born, there is a well. You have read this one before.
At the surface, we are schooled by the remnants of dust, upon universities, in the tightened air between alleyways.

Today, you woke up out of patience.

What took you so long?

Everywhere in the city, Heather Reisman’s eyes loom behind glass : fragile, caged in a golden sticker. Each night, she phones Myron, asks him what he ate for dinner.

You ring my doorbell at midnight: how does the sky not drop?

It is autumn.

In Saint-Hubert, an officer is on paid sick leave for murder.
In the story in which you were born, nobody says “child.”

You have read this one before. You ring my doorbell at midnight and we drive to the suburbs.
You accidentally order undercooked chicken that plants bacteria in the pit of your stomach.

Across the street, the mayors invest in bubbles and tanks.

You overhear them.
You will wake up, one week later, with a hardened stomach ache.

You look up from your plate, your vision sick. You gift me a biography and I

Am reading, only six stops away from you. Finish your tea.
At twilight, the birds are still on the page.

You are being patient,
In the story in which you were born

This is a terminal station.