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Abandoned                                                          ( published in Smartish Pace )

After years of channeling the deceased
the psychic closes her door.

She says, even empty streets are crowded
now that so many have been lost—

imprints of the dead
pressed into every corner of the city.

Tourists stand on the sidewalk,
cross only when told.

They stare into the gutter,
divert their eyes: some newspaper,

a naked doll and oil-slick runoff,
remnants of a lunch

rolled in a grease-soaked bag
then quickly tossed aside.

This morning on the news
ten abandoned subway cars

plunged to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Subway cars scrubbed of grease and oil,

fingerprints and vomit—
a simple erasure of existence.

Heft of doors sold for scrap,
wheels released from their tracks

until only a windowless shell remains,
each light bulb removed by hand.

In five months mussels coat the walls,
sea bass swim the portholes.

And somewhere beneath the surface
caught in that makeshift reef,

those imprints float,
decayed suits touching elbows,

their hands gripping the metal poles
as they stare into the dark waters beyond.