Monday, February 23, 2009

Night Train

It’s not often that I ride the train
into Manhattan by myself.
Although the dulled blue and red seats,
worn by time and its travelers,
provide comfort,
sinking with a familiar sound
of air escaping through any holes
or unstitched seams.
I look around at the train’s inhabitants—
good thing we are all headed to the same city,
for the running lights above
take their turn to shine.
The posters are run down like dated drapes
from your great-grandmother’s living room.
This one here is for Mama Mia on Broadway,
from two summers ago.
The luggage racks are no more than twisted metal.
The sways of the train take me side-to-side,
shake me back to the sixth grade
and the school bus which shook
like a crackerjack box on wheels
tossed along the road like the
magazines, coffee cups, and flyers left behind
on the floor of this train.
And I will spend the rest of the ride
trying to avoid the half eaten donut
the man next to me has placed between us
on the seat after pronouncing it “stale.”
A pen rolls to my feet.
It doesn’t write, it scratches.
Screech, the train brakes
and the yellow light above the door flashes
as I hear the conductor’s voice,
“Penn Station.”

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