The Way I Am

A poem, 
about a subway I have never ridden.
A poem,
about a subway I would like to ride.

The Subway

I sit picking the callouses

of my fingertips on the subway.

The constant ka-thunk and

flutter of light is catharsis.

Sliding across the orange,

plastic seat, curved so slight

as to encourage this 

rocking motion. 

This is no ship at sea,

no wavering magic carpet

across the Arabian nights.

The wobbling compression

of bodies together, the jostling

like salty sardines, this tin can

hurtling toward the light.

Elbows bumping and newspapers

shuffling into angry forms,

their crinkling is sharp 

and jagged like

the doors' edges,

as traffic flows left/right,

exits located at x,y, and z.

These trains stop for no one

but themselves.

Space rockets in the dark 

caverns. The city steps

with clunky footfalls 

above, the sounds muffled

with the constancy of mumbles,

and sometimes praise and 

obscene rambling to 

christen this new feat

in mass transit.

A flat champagne bottle

busted on this metal siding,

leaving behind

the discoloration staining

lower Manhattan a funny

shade of green.

Sloshing around in the 

cracked seat, the windows

let bursts of blurring

underground strain through,

and the grey concrete 

utters the same hum

as the wheels click-clackering

on the tracks.