Systematically
searching for the right connection
under
hot condensation dripping off
the
peeling ceiling
of
28th St.’s station.
The
bumpy yellow sandpaper holds back
my
eager feet from slipping
to
the electric track below.
The
1-train cascades past
plastering
30 year old grime
into
my pores, filling them
with
the long forgotten experiences
from
those who thrived in these tunnels before.
We
accepting fate as a scheduled journey,
the
70 other people weighing down the platform
crowd
the iron worm,
soaking
it with their fermenting frames
and
exhausted brains, impatiently riding
the
screeching rail to their destiny.
My fellow zombies sit uncomfortably
close
sparking my
temptation to cast judgment…
BING-BONG
‘therapy’s
over.’
Time
to return to the surface
and
recollect my old self,
shedding
the subway-me
with
every step I take.
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