DAYS BETWEEN STATIONS

     The elevator man has a big cigar and he lights it on the hour, then puts it out again. I tell him my floor, but he coughs and stares and I hope he doesn't follow as I climb the stairs.

     Now I'm framed in the mirror of a smoke glass door and I comb my hair again. I hope they don't see me. I step into the room and they turn their eyes. In a cold, gray flash I realize they won't see me.

     Never seen a ghost and I would not run. I remember when I might've seen a dead man once. Blue-faced, staring in the long, tall grass. And I remember thinking as I tiptoed past him silently.

     This is no place for someone like me.

     Days between stations. Struggling with my bags past the angels in their fishnets and the angry man in rags quoting Shakespeare on the corner with a bad life on his breath. And it isn't quite morning and it isn't quite death.

     This is no place for someone like me.

     Never seen a ghost and I would not run. I remember when I might've seen a dead man once. Blue-faced, standing on a southbound train. Saying, "Buddy, can you tell me--, Buddy, can you tell me-- Can you tell me why I can't get back again?"

     Days between stations. Days between years. Running from the empty-eyed believers and the volunteers. They're calling from the corners, closing in a ring. Saying, "Baby, don't you worry. You won't even feel a thing."

     This is no place for someone like me.