This Windy Night

This windy night
smells like marijuana,
despite the snowy rain
and the rainy snow after.

Her mild annoyance
is hiding behind her face.
She lies on my bed reading,
flowing gently into the night.

This hollow apartment
is a pipe of secondhand
smoking. Anyone, anywhere
can choke us to the brim.

Only one more month,
she just said, one more
month and we’re gone,
like forever, for real.

I’m sitting by her side,
staying silent and sad,
and writing this down.
Yes, we’ll be gone.


Alice Hates Bob

Alice Hates Bob
by Fanz Hugo

The body has
been slow to throb.
I guess, I guess
Alice hates Bob.

She sipped his tea,
and kicked the mob.
You see, you see:
Alice hates Bob.

She moved his head,
and cleaned the knob.
The floor’s turned red.
Alice hates Bob.

If only his
body was easy
to throb. Oh Bob.


Her Older Self Wouldn’t Recognize Her Twisted Face

Her Older Self Wouldn’t Recognize Her Twisted Face
by Fanz Hugo

Her older self
wouldn’t recognize
her twisted face.
It’s a maze.

She’s running,
on bare legs,
towards a
little boy-

her brother.
and delight,
all at once.

Her elder
sister follows,
too bored to
care. She knows.

She won’t
her face twisted
from hunger.


Who’s Hungry

Who’s Hungry
by Fanz Hugo

Feeling down.
Walking ’round.
Sadly moved by
a mellow song.

On the street.
Down the train.
Bus delayed by
the pouring rain.

Back to you.
No, you two.
Who’s hungry?
Me too.


11:55AM on a Workday

11:55AM on a Workday
by Fanz Hugo

It’s five to twelve,
when the station goes
ephemerally silent
with walking ghosts.

Even musicians take
the moment to enjoy
yet another prelude
to the instant chaos.

AM to PM sounds
like a huge shift,
like from night to day.
Nothing happens.

Not much chitchat
aboard the train.
Two young women
talk loudly. Don’t care.

One elder woman
takes her nap,
looking up whenever
the voiceover starts.

The next station
is High Park,
where the sakura trees
are dying of old age.

If I was a writer,
I’d tell the story
of their afterlives
in Japanese.

Waiting is the only
condolence that seems
to matter for now,
here at the station.


Young Legs in Spring

Young Legs in Spring
by Fanz Hugo

It’s morning again,
but morning is commuting.
Young legs of schoolgirls
in uniform fill the train.

An occasional teenager
sits and nudges her fingers,
with her annoyed father
standing by in silence.

White legs, dark legs,
socks and playful skirts.
All are impatient,
especially in the morning.

Young legs are slim and fast,
roaming the escalator,
up to the station exit.
They never stop stretching.

For once, she stands still,
hands down helping
her skirt fight the wind outside,
waiting for her pals to come.

Her future rivals. Or lovers.
Who knows. It’s up to her.
Two young legs will
walk elegance in spring.