Other Shoe

I ride
the East Greenlake
Express
sitting behind
a wax paper
mannequin
who can't
stop moving.
He is affected
with lonely
animation.
His sad hum
is a bandage
on the sliced
fingers
of his heart.
He's lost.
He's lost
his love
because
he remained
blue opaque
when asked
for definition.
I listen to the
defeated measures
he drifts
over
the river rock
heads
of our face-forward,
expressionless
companions.
The other shoe.
The other shoe dropped.
She's not there.
The ringing
in the chiaroscuro
candled auditorium
of his head
takes an aisle seat,
and tears up
our transfers.
We will ride.
We won't
get off.