Davis Square

waiting for the Red Line I read a poem carved into the brick platform.
a woman’s voice takes me by surprise.

“I’ve been to that factory.”

I have no idea what to say, or even what she’s talking about.
She senses this and laughs politely.

“the factory in the poem.”

As I leave the spit-gray factory,
Crowds of Blackbirds drift
up into the cumulus
Like released balloons.
I hold the wings of my fingertips in my coat pocket.

“ah... I’m sorry. I’m with you now. I’m pretty sure I’ve worked there before.
In fact it’s entirely possible that I still work there now.”

Now it’s her turn to wear a bewildered expression.
I offer her my simple explanation.

“my life is a spit-gray factory surrounded by blackbirds.”

She frowns, then smiles awkwardly,
then looks up with relief at the approaching train.