Covered in Secaucus

Anything that is not New York is outbound, says Secaucus. A friend said she’d live there just for the name the kind of name that defies affectation and deifies the gum- chewing lilt of its true cantors. I might think the same in Secaucus when it’s raining. The train window rain is dirty and I am starved for cover, some shelter against the grim, cloud soaked sunshine like so many filthy rags about a spill. It keeps the poetry out, let’s us sleep in the sad and “heavy weather, huh?” light that is maybe just strong enough to be ugly.