ManicDDaily

I admit to being very tired this eleventh day of National Poetry Month and Monday to boot!  (More on boots below.)

Here’s a draft poem written in and about the New York City subway system.

On the subway, NYC

Oh the energy of the human!
Not only do we wend our tubal way
each day through track and dim
and the jim-jam of more
humanity; we also make the effort, pre-
trek, in some looking-glassed, dim-lit room, to don
a black gaucho hat
with a silver patterned band encircling
its crown, a band which nestles just above another
band of braided brown.
Nestled below the hat
come blue jeans embroidered
at the shins
with a cartoon hip-hot kid in crimson and white,
who carries a similarly threaded boom box
about knee-level,
which brings up, along this same track,
wonder at the energy of
manufacturers, their surging press for
logos, crests, pink princesses
interspersed with spirited teams–the man’s shoes
narrow to points unknown, while
the black leather boots of the woman just across are
open-toed, her nails like lips painted beige
to match her blazer, earrings
sparkling to the clavicle–all
of us poised in our best grim readiness–I myself
washed hair this a.m., rubbed on mousse–
inside these tubes of darkness, mostly,
to step on out into the tiled echoes, beneath the
ceilinged stars, of
Grand Central.

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