Joel Byron Barker
Stepped past a boy’s knee in the aisle of the commuter train,
When I brushed my corduroy across his skateboard deck, I doubt he knew it was deliberate.
I pass through all people now, all things.
Next there was a man with pursed lips holding his baby
and his baby reached out into the aisle –
singing
They are a song on the radio that I know.
You cast your shadow on my love while I was rolling a morning cigarette, not the first. I turned to you hoping you would bring it back or the sensation of it.
For the sensation of love. I sing along even when static crosses over.
I pass through you heading away from the sun.