VIII

Poetry
Gray skies and brown skyscrapers. 
Salted dirt sprinkles cars. Central Park is slush. Run in heels. 
Expensive everything. From 96th Street, Take the subway.
smells like piss, is it ever cleaned? 

Light blue seats. Your reflection is on black windows. 
Stare at the next stop, waiting for yours. People pile 
on top of one another. Human waste reeks. Tracks screech.
You're the first one on. You think, where is everybody? 
Two stops later, all seats are taken. 
A bum pees in the connector of the cars.
Murderous intent from the man across from you. 
Get off, now.

Pandering for money.  Scream instead of talking,
an orchestra of metal, languages, honking, using...
Crisp, cold, filthy trash. All ignored.
Perhaps, that's part of the allure. 


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