ditch,

the poetry that matters

Andrea DeAngelis

Andrea DeAngelis is at times a poet, writer, shutterbug and musician living in New York City. Her writing has recently appeared in Heavy Bear, Clockwise Cat, Calliope Nerve, The Blue Jew Yorker, Word Riot, Denver Syntax, and Writers Bloc. Andrea also sings and plays guitar in an indie rock band called MAKAR (www.makarmusic.com).

mis-seeing

Waking mid-motion derailed
mis-seeing twisted tree trunks
for drunken suited men with washcloth faces
wiping off the wasted nightscape of midnight misplaced
before a caked men's room mirror.

Wipe saliva thickened glass
last night’s travel grime
not to see but to mis-see
to shudder inside
what could have been.

The man’s face is blurred with
deliberate cysts
creating and collapsing cheeks
bleed before the caffeine steam
stream of seamless mornings.

Stale faces and
rusted crusts of mouths
forgotten in the lost and found
constant consumptive warnings
of clockarms upon beige lives staining
expertly folded and tucked frowns
starched backaches
and steam-pressed foreheads
crushes upwards
hours upon hours misplaced.

Look in deeper
the pockmarked men’s room mirror
an eaten-up tree trunk man
wavers across yawns of railroad gasps.

Does he find himself asleep
standing over the urinals cocooned
inside the Hoboken waiting room,
losing hours while wringing out his expressions
in the sink?

Evenings are half-digested
as he fails his wedding band
the drain crawls with torn-out hair
as a woman she simply doesn’t understand
his need for erasable eyebrows
and moisturized alligator hands.

Rubbing through
this train’s window
waking the day away
enclosed
inside the men’s room mirror
picking at skin deeper
to see clearer
stare through to a man
practicing his face
to make it taste
like dissolving peppermints
to the silver of her
that will soon disappear
without a palatable trace.

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