98
Sitting sideways going forward northward on the train,
waiting, watching platforms pass,
ensconced in plastic, steel, and glass,
two passengers in cabin class,
not underclass, who, under, pass
paths slowly cast past low landmass,
at last borne fast through hewn terrain, arriving soon to new domain.
And as they surf the dark
they catch a splash of light,
a rhythmic pulsing spark,
like capturing a sprite.
Amber lanterns fly past, flashing
in the tunnels, faeries dashing
pole to pole, like fireflies
trapped in steel, they hypnotize
captive souls, they captivate
boxed-in riders, congregate
in fleeting dance, they pass the day
in shadow, then, they flit away.
[Amber lanterns fly past,]
[flashing in the tunnels,]
[faeries dashing pole to pole,]
[like fireflies trapped in steel,]
[they hypnotize captive souls,]
[they captivate boxed-in riders,]
[congregate in fleeting dance,]
[they pass the day in shadow,]
[then, they flit away.]
97
CatLetter1 CatLetter2 CatLetter3 CatLetter0
CatLetter4 
All day lain still in relaxed dream,
the window sill, the gold sunbeam,
the dad and daughter passing by
who catch his barely-opened eye,
the twitch, the chirp, the blink, the yawn,
the big stretch, toes like little prawns,
to sit up squinting at the street,
as people pass in summer's heat.
And every day the little cat sits down to write a letter.
And every day he gets one back becomes a little better.
"The sun today," with pen he writes,
"came in the window warm and bright
and bathed my fur with glowing light.
I think I'll sleep quite well tonight."
And now he waits for your reply, dear niece.
96
Chirps 
This bird chirps. And that bird chirps.
What do you think they chirp about?
I hear the chirping down the street.
Are chirps a whisper or a shout?
That is to say, the little bird,
is reaching distant blocks its goal?
Or does it wish to speak unheard
but hasn't got volume control?
People will call the cries all trysts
for bagging bad bodacious babes,
but maybe birds are scientists
proudly discussing astrolabes.
Or maybe they're comedians
projecting jokes so all can hear,
and all the other birds are laughing
"Tell the one about Shakespeare!"
And what if a bird teacher
is lecturing its class
of scattered chirping bird students
on properties of mass?
That objects have inertia
keeping them in place
and gravitational attraction
bending time and space.
The birds could all be picketing
in protest for fair wages
for all the birds we catch and breed
and keep inside birdcages.
And suddenly and noisily a truck turns down the street
and every single chatty chirp turns into tricksy tweet.
They know that we are watching, waiting, wondering of what
their bouncy bellowed babbling belies inside them, but
the secrets in their speeches spoken stridently are still
intended only for their friends awakened with free will.
So when we've penetrated near enough to generate translation
they hide their voice behind masks of pretend inarticulation.
Joke's on them, though, we can't tell
the difference between speaking well 
and alarm bell
and raising hell
and incoherent shouting spell.
Yes, all the chirps and tweets and caws
of birds with feathers, beaks, and claws
sound just the same to human ears,
and all that any of us hears
is tune with textures, tones, and tiers
of songliness, no rhyme or cause.
And so these little chirping birds
with wary watchful eyes
are all the while wasting words
on linguistic disguise.
95
PromiseOfBiotechnology 
The promise of biotechnology,
a spiraling vision for all to see,
in stark opposition
to moral decision,
could be to abet an atrocity.

UntitledWoman 
Across the lot standing stonefaced,
an untitled woman encased
in black and white flowers
for fighting the powers
that would see her skin tone erased.
94
YellowLine 
Stand behind the yellow line.
Not blue like Klein, not red red wine, not puce-ish pink like calamine.
The sign declines divine design.
The sign enshrines thy storyline.
No deadline for a live line where a life line flatlines.
Not a dead line, a lifeline, this death line.
A bright line for a bloodline.
It's a foul line, this foul line,
a fell line, this fall line.
For some a goal line,
for all a front line.
We, the undefined undersigned, remind the plum wine inclined:
Please, stay well off the well-off line,
lest one's incline go supine,
one's plumb line turn minus sign,
one's outline make headlines.
For the saddest punch line outshines the sunshine:
"But doctor," the B whines,
"I am the train line!"
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com