Icebox

My grandmother catalogued

The contents of the icebox

Sure that there’s a meal

To be made from what was in there

She offered us an orange

For the seven days of aftershocks

Dressed up in our best clothes

With the powder in our hair

It sticks in the throat

It sticks in the throat

I tried to run, but it runs on remote

The blonde girls in midtown board

The express for the east side

I stare for lack of purpose

Knowing you are far and gone

I slept through my stop

And disembarked to make a joyride

Brighton beach and russian baths

And hudson river dawn

It sticks in the throat

It sticks in the throat

I tried to run, but it runs on remote

My grandmother listens

To the men in conversation

Sure that there’s a reason

To be silent and be still

Table turned and jacket torn

In ancient observation

All of us in black against the February chill

I am at the window with my feet up on the sill