> tapioca world tour

Anarchist kid on the train thinks
everyone should die

but he smelled the flowers on the hill tonight,
felt the orange sky hugging his skinny arms.
Something drives him on.

The city smelled like the sea today.
Night smells like life.
And in strangers’ livingrooms, the walls express
such a clear happiness, it makes me

remember to breathe deep
and walk slow, and not sleep, and recall
with renewed clarity the effect those early
years we shared had on me.

Everywhere I look, someone is loving something.
The grey sea, the green trees
keep us, at the very least, believing.

Now, this thick air, the sound of breaking
mufflers and someone’s rattling keys,
the way the train saunters its dirty way
to a bright platform

makes me realize nothing has changed.
Good comes, and comes again.