The phone in my pocket is shaking its head

The phone in my pocket is shaking its head,

with texts from the living and texts from the dead.

But I’m thinking of twenty-four, half-past ten,

at the Wascomat station on Fifth and then.

The smell of the Bounce was a chemical cloud,

and nobody there was allowed to be loud.

I watched my old Levi's go round and go round,

the only reliable, comforting sound.

The glass was a window to a hot, heavy peace,

waiting for the wrinkles to find their release.