She gets up—
short running tights,
tight and a little too short.
She gets up,
walks past men barely present, staring
through the ceiling like it was an illusion,
men trying to escape the confines of the 99 B-line,
men deep in gnostic meditation, separating mind from body,
letting the former drift like a balloon on a blustery day,
while the later remains a shell on an overcrowded bus.
She gets up,
walks past with tight black smelling-salt:
eyes fall from the ceiling
from shoulders to waist to. . .
Men return to consciousness
minds remember their tether.
Some regain composure quickly,
eyes bouncing up from baser instincts
to ads for burritos above windows;
others follow short tights to the exit,
savoring their embodiment for a moment
before
returning to their mediations.
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