And then one day you’re on the train

reading the journals written by a girl like you

exactly sixty years ago.

She’s dead now. 

She has been dead for almost fifty years.

“Somehow, you could never

face yourself, quite.”

It’s on a day like this 

that the hustle and bustle

seems depressingly pointless.

You meet a random New Yorker 

whose nervous energy

and unpleasant manners

make you want to eat

three brownies in a row.

So you go home to paint a still life

or, let’s face it,

to waste time on the internet

since nothing matters

and never will.