Machination

Cluttered black coats spout
steam clouds on platforms
before the train eats them.

Each coat, a machine entering
machines entering

Manhattan. This morning's
track grease, a suicide's
body, makes us momentarily

organic by seeing the red parts that
compose us. "Fucker ruined

my meeting," someone hisses.
Doors remain closed. The train goes
nowhere. A faulty cog

stalls a machine.

Gratitude

We forget what we have because we have it, and only know what we've got when we've lost it.

Making a habit to be grateful for things we take for granted is hard work.

Religion's rituals increase awareness till their repetition loses meaning.

Loved ones are the first to be lost from everyday consciousness.

Skills become rote: the choreographed precision of my father's trowel movement is as thoughtful as chewing gum.

Domestic objects are invisible till something is misplaced.

Admiration from others only reminds us we have something to be admired, not of the something itself.

Only earnest gratitude pierces familiarity and gives us anew what we already have.