Don’t think I didn’t see you swaying in your seat, two spots down from me
on the B,
your feet moving one, two, three-four to the salsa music blasting out your ears.
I was trying hard to concentrate on reading.
Trying too hard to silently pronounce the Spanish of the poems in my book.
But all I heard was your salsa music.
Don’t think I didn’t see your bright orange shirt either,
its color putting the sad worn-out orange of the train’s seats to shame.
Only the bird squawking in its cage – who brings their bird on the train?! – competed with the loudness of your orange.
I couldn’t help but smile while still pretending to read.
And if I knew how to salsa better, maybe we could’ve danced
together, in the orange of the Uptown B.
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