I always say a ride on a New York City subway is going to be a trip. Here are two more commuter poems in my series to that effect:
Subway Poem # 2
i like to watch
like at the movies,
in my seat,
involved yet detached.
seen through windows
steel pillars flicker by
like passing separate frames,
and everything I see a shimmering illusion.
the cast of characters enter and exit
while the leading man,
seated directly across from me,
is center screen in medium-shot
till 57th and 5th.
Subway Poem # 3
no straps for today's straphangers,
just cold steel poles to cling to
and parallel rows of cobalt blue seats.
"what time is it?"
boombox blares once doors close
and three young dudes --
who announced our floor show --
are in motion
dancing, twirling, somersaulting
down a linoleum aisle,
acrobatics from bars on subway's ceiling,
swinging on those cold steel poles.
i'm at the circus as a child and
the car seems illuminated, all razzle-dazzling!
an outburst, then a display, then a fizzle like when fireworks finish,
they are gone come Canal Street.
even the tattooed couple are in awe.
but now showtime's over.
we are going home.