Milano Centrale

Milano Centrale

If you sit long enough the reels will loop.
You watch the models apply and reapply
Eyeliner and lipstick and rouge,
As if some unseen rain were washing it away. 
This isn’t beauty, you think — beauty 
Happens once and for awhile. 
You look away to see that
The woman sitting next to you
Has had her face smashed in by someone
She probably still loves. 
She’s come down here to the station
To get away from him for the morning,
To let him cool down
So he doesn’t fuck up and kill her.
Everyone sees what’s going on,
Exchanges looks of concern. 
She has a crutch, the kind with a cradle
That cups the wrist,
And a folded paper bag
As if to prove that she has nothing else.
A carabiniere comes along — “Andiamo,”
He says, but she’s a long time getting up.
You watch her walk unsteadily away.
She’ll find somewhere else to sit
Until he tells her to move again.
You turn back to see the reels are still running,
The girls defining their lips
Like dictionaries: a bruise happens
When blood leaks out of crushed capillaries,
And, trapped there, pools under the skin
Like makeup applied from within.