Joseph O'Keefe​

On the Red Line

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At altitude, when longing surpasses airspeed,

you notice what you missed before—

lightning that never strikes the ground,

rain that vanishes mid-sky,

what might have been a passing aurora.

 

I was a midnight busker on Boston’s Red Line,

singing for trains that never kept time,

lips tendering the echoes of the station,

scratched lightly by the wools of my imperfections

 

Yet I felt the chance and ring of the covering night,

the possibility of unbidden forgiveness

from those who knew better the melodies

and paused on the dirty concrete

nonetheless.

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