At the MFL 34th St. stop, waiting for the eastbound train -
the place smells like a perm infused with pungent sweat.
If I smoked, I’d be afraid of lighting up,
lest the station explode due to all the ammonia.
The westbound train brings a much appreciated
rush of air, both arriving and departing.
I look up the tracks for signs of the eastbound,
perhaps a distant light on the tracks, but
no sign appears and I go back to leaning against
the rails at the base of the stairwell.
Unwitting unilateral iPod karaoke R&B
fades in and out with the listener/singer’s inspiration.
I feel the wind rush just after I hear the rumble -
the eastbound train arrives and
I start the long trip home.
I get a seat at 30th st. and keep writing.
At this time of night rush hour morning office fashion
is forgone in favor of white T-shirts, jeans,
faded work gear and shift work uniforms.
The conversations filter in and out,
snippets of personal conversation lives
played out upon a rolling stage with
subway stop exeunts and entrances.
The doors open and close once more before we ascend.
It’s gradual and the white tunnel lights
look like the broken white stripes of a
passing allowed lane.
No passing here, just gentle rocking
and more stops, each announced in a
neutral, yet calming female voice.
Man with bicycle in the doorway,
woman holding a container of prepared food in her hand,
as if bringing it to a potluck or a party (or both).
The crowd in the car thins -
the young man sitting with aggressive crotch display
on the cellphone speaking his love into the handset.
The pain in my right ankle comes back
to remind me that I’m here -
that I haven’t disappeared into a sea of observations.
I sit hunched like an older man above these words,
thinking, even as I write them, where to post or publish them.
I turn sidesaddle in the seat to be more comfortable
and become self conscious about this
stream of consciousness flow -
reviews, others’ thoughts -
“how can this be worth anything to anyone?”
Screw validation – all those thumbs up
from unknown people of taste and significance.
They only show up after I’ve actually done work.
A guy’s reading the Egyptian Book of The Dead -
in Spanish. I don’t know why.
I’m almost at the Terminal now -
just one more set of openings and closings.
I just want to get home.
I’m closer now but not fully there.
Last stop. Now the bus.
and the waiting.