by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018
Poetry
by Jay Willett ’20
Dust and gunk spewed up from beneath the rails as her train skidded to a stop.
You couldn’t see the orange citrus rays of the morning sun underground.
“Boston, Boston!”
She flung her flowered bag over her shoulder and reached for her carry-on.
The stench of the subway was overwhelming; if it was clean, it wasn’t Providence.
Just two months, just two goddamn months.
How many mornings are in two months? How many mornings like this will we miss?
How many movies had I watched with this scene?
The conductor motioned toward his watch then to me.
The worst part, she looked most beautiful right then.
Among the dirty, dim, repulsing tunnel, she flashed a soft smile.
I hate clichés, until I start living one.
In that moment, when she struggled to tiptoe up to me,
I wanted the whole world to shut up and freeze.
Right there, when she kissed me, and my eyes welled up,
That’s where I wanted to exist.
“Ask her to stay,”
She turned away and rolled her luggage over to the mustard yellow line,
“Ask her to live with you, anything to make her just stay,”
She leaped up to the sliding door,
“Ask her, you idiot.”
The train slipped past, and the stench trailed behind,
For two months I was going to be alone in the tunnel,
Waiting until I get to see my morning sunshine again.
Where was once perfection, was the rats and an empty hall.
Up the stairs, back out into the day, I felt a tangy sensation.
So sweet it was to be without sunlight in bitter cold.