Thom McCaffrey

Machine

Something in me woke me
in the middle of the night
to listen to the sound
of the city stripped down
to its nocturnal gears:
scattered engine thrums,
footsteps in puddles,
coughing drunks,
and a general hum
of a city in the rain
like a light
everywhere.

I knew that if I looked
out the window,
all of it would be
orange
and black
and glistening.
Sleeping without peace,
without the guarantee
that the world
will be still,
only the guarantee
the world will
still be.

Breakfast

I never saw you eat breakfast the way it is supposed to be.

There were no windows in our kitchen.

No morning light falling upon your face, no sun dangling from soft lips;
a drop of milk-

spackle falling off the easy dimple in your chin.
I am off for work instead,

or you’re gone by the time I wake.

And I wake,

With only softly shaded groggy snapshots,
articles draped across the dresser,

your loose underwear pulled tight against
the red showered ass you shook
in the chilly stale
between the apartment walls.

To breathe in deep against the window glass as you left the bedroom,
I stopped,

as your steps descended out into day,

and spotted a parking ticket
in the midday glow
of the lot.
I, too, was gone.

Author Bio

Thom McCaffrey is a poet living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He graduated from Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. In 2002 he was awarded a fellowship to attend the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets. He is currently working on his manuscript.