Train People

Bleecker to 96th Street.

Steel. Rivets.

4th Street to 161st.

Brick. Tile.

Broadway/Lafayette to Union Turnpike.

Glass. Titanium.

2nd Avenue to 4th and 9th Street.

And back.

I look down and see six polished black shoes anchoring six pant-suited legs.

I look through windows of elbows to see faces sleeping, others obscured by newspapers, 

and my own between them, in the window across.

I hear the monotone rehearsed flow of words, asking for forgiveness, 

for sympathy for their disfigurement, their unvalued place in the city.

The riders try not to hear.

We emerge, into what has turned into night.

The scarlet nails of a woman gleam in the headlights of a taxi she impatiently waits for, 

her pinky rigidly outstretched, indicating to the driver where to stop.

We scurry away, each to a different corner of the city.