The subway is no place to fall in love:
the scenery beats a retreat from you
as it is, the street preacher’s
grackles of Armageddon slam
against the window of seen-it-all-before,

the bob of the train nods
its passengers agreement
to a string of gaudy advertisements
promising that you, too,
can dine on the chowder of heaven
with seventy two perfect teeth.

No, love should be brewed
in some crystal cauldron on a cloud
for some still-salty Aphrodite,

and certainly not for the corner girl
with the darting eyes,
the short cut of brown,
and, in her bag, could it be,

About the author

Phil Kopel is a giant chicken with a machine gun masquerading as a giant chicken without a machine gun. He lives in New Orleans.

Read the full bio

Issue 03 · February 2009

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