Tip of the Quill: A Journal
30|08:11 MBTA

Longing for release and it’s not even Wednesday,

I close my eyes and blink to better coordinates,
folding myself through a tesseract and squeezing through
the tiniest sliver of an escape clause,
I renege on this weather,
I reject the contract that keeps April cold,
I turn my back on the bullshit compliance
that maintains this ridiculous hegemony –
I stand in this subterranean expanse,
leaning heavily against a squat, tattered column
and spluttering in these failing fluorescents,
I shift from foot to foot, I curse, I sweat,
I swallow my frustrations, no good, no good,
my feet scuff the concrete and my teeth grind to razor points,
honing calcium into furious fangs,
with each passing minute I devolve, more feral,
my hair growing long and my nails unsheathing sharp from quicks,
I am this beast that prowls beneath Harvard Square,
a minotaur’s path worn deep into ragged bricks.