Transfer

The radiator is doing that thing again—

a rhythmic banging, like someone’s trying to get out

of the pipes. The air in here is old.

It smells like a stranger’s Tuesday night dinner.

I found a postcard behind the fridge today,

wedged in the dust and the dry, dead flies.

A station in Japan. Shinjuku? Maybe.

The sky is mostly gone now, covered

by a thick, grey thumbprint of kitchen grease.

I imagine the floor there is clean.

The trains move like they have somewhere to be,

not like the 4-train that just sighs and stops

under the river for no reason.

I’ll never go. I’ll just keep breathing

this borrowed air and staring at the grease.