Será

Will it be that the last summer escaped on another subway,
that in this car the sun doesn't come out,
that you didn't call yesterday.

Will it be that it's early and I don't want to go to work,
will it be that your scent never reaches down here,
will it be your delays.

Will it be that this temporary contract doesn't understand
about movie afternoons
or sunrises.

Will it be that it's cold and my knees and rents hurt,
will it be that you still don't live with me,
father's screams like pins.

Will it be the temp agency, that clenches my fists, that leaves my temples
full of clouds, empty fridges, train schedules.
Will it be that the clock hurts me.

Will it be because of that, that this tired soul
misses you.
My stop is coming.