Tunnel Audio

PAMELA YAN

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Rush hour strangers break the tripwire around her personal space

And now her incandescent aura is humming angrily

She brings the brilliance of a ceiling full of sixty-watt bulbs

To the minorly illuminated Metro car.

 

In her mind she dares the lazy-eyed beanie-wearing man,

His beard looks like an albino loofah,

To leer at her and give her compliments that are as real

As grape-flavored things.

 

Looking at her you know the stern set of her face

Is a public mask to ward off interaction.

You can imagine her voice in private is as real as

Grape flavors in wine: aged, but not beyond recognition.

 

This tunnel spawns more--who knows which Frost would take?--

Because all the roads start to spool sinuously

Until existence resembles electrical wires behind your desk

Originating from the power strip and ending mid-snarl.

 

You’ll know when someone is of the same ilk:

The sunlight will leak out of the holes in her exterior

And tiny pinpricks of her soul will shine through

The oiled hide of unfamiliarity.

 

The incessant sound of hurtling past tunnels

Pulsatingly vacuums sensation out of your ears.

All audio has flatlined, except

Her voice, that of trees in the forest.

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