When I’m on my way
underground, waiting
for the train to stop,
I’m certain that
something will happen.

Get chased by

homeless men with blunt kitchen knives, get called a bastard by junkies, get senile bitches on your ass every day and you’re left with a love of free entertainment.

When the car tilts,
I jounce,
stagger, my
soles heave,
and I clasp onto

a blonde (minger).

Back when I frequented 96th St. for band practice, I’d take the Bronx-bound 6-train. Sometimes I’d see a woman, probably thirty, blow up her fish face, take out bubblegum lipstick meant for preteen girls, dab it across her lips.

A round man on her right
would blab, gesticulate
about God-knows-what,
and still, I’d find love
down here, down

where anything goes.

On Monday, the Q-train wasn’t in service, but the B-train was on its way. Lovers, parents, little kids, college kids waited. They lined up to the graffitied edge, waiting to go home.

Pillars, catching the train;
the other side
stood empty.
Let’s jump
the tracks.