"Manhattan, A-Train, 5pm" by David Roderick

[audio m4a="http://barnstormjournal.org/content/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Manhattan-A-train.m4a"][/audio]Maybe the prophet’s right             when he says someone sits                          in judge of us—This here Babylon.             We walkin’ in blood.             Maybe he’s right                                       about meand every smartphone teen,the women hustling             to yoga or neighborhood gyms.Skirts with tights kill                          me, all this fleshin rapture, shadowed cups             I spy             from a sweet-meat place.Besides, on the street above             the men of Moloch,their heads shavedand gleaming,                          have already bargained             for all nine versionsof the sky.                          I need a herd’s warmth,its alarm system,                          every head wired             to a sourceand charmed by the same damned             dream.                          All I can do             is fiddle with appswhile the ragman                          parts the aisle, rattlinga tuna tin,             his eyes mining mine.You can’t see? he says.             You don’t agree with my reasons?Well you’re wrong, my friend.             You’re way the fuck wrong.David Roderick’s first book of poems, BLUE COLONIAL, won the APR/Honickman Prize. This fall, the Pitt Poetry Series published his second book, THE AMERICANS. He teaches in the MFA Writing Program at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro and hosts an interview series on The Rumpus called The Late Nite Poetry Show.