Chit-Chat (Notes About A Morning Commute)

by Jenna Finkle

Some mornings
I feel so full of words I might burst.
Gossiping in plush seats feels
a most productive launch to the morning.
We should be whispering but Jay talks loud and it’s been weeks since I decided I love Jay more than these other goons on the bus, so if she talks loud I will, too.

Some afternoons
I feel so tired I can’t even communicate with a gaze
eyes cast downwards or
I blast Pixies music until I
can’t hear myself think

I like to listen to music so loud
I hear it crunching tiny bones in my ears.
I think about being deaf when I’m old
and there’s something so satisfying about my anger slowly breaking apart my body
through this pounding beating in my head.

Most afternoons I am filled with rage
everyone is one wrong move away
from setting me off.
I hope I’m screaming with my eyes because
the thought of someone mistaking my expression for friendliness is unbearably terrible.
I try to quash some anger,
but mock interactions keep playing out in my head and
every scenario ends with me verbally slaying some asshole who crossed me.

Some mornings
I listen to the news and feel sophisticated and smart. Like a good samaritan, or a hot young politico. And my mind moves a mile a minute and I have so many feelings and I feel useful, like I have so many opinions and something good must come of it soon. Like maybe my job is alright.

Sometimes on the bus I Spy.
Shamelessly studying everyone around me, I catalogue tiny details. I note the exact shade of her lipstick, memorize the pattern of a pocket lining and admire poetry displayed on the kindle that keeps bumping into my knuckles. Maybe someday something important and cool will come of this insufferable curiosity.

Maybe I should try and sleep on the commute. It would be less exhausting.


Back to Poetry.

Back to Issue ​7​.