ManicDDaily

Synapse Subway

There is a subway under the skin that
travels by synapse rail. It trails the curve
of spine and your sixth birthday out
in the yard; accelerates through the loins, jumps
with only a bump over that boy
in the backseat, chugs its way up
to the brain. Trestles of pleasing
try to ease the way, still, it bogs down over
changes in time, destination, track,
derails completely
periodically.

You don’t much care for the riders–the breath of some is terrible–
others (poorly shaven) constantly bug you for change.  A few make themselves
up while the train careens through
the autonomic nervous system, but they are not like
those on the IRT, who, holding
compact mirror in hand, apply their eyeliner
in a precise calligraphy–these
bunch the lines in blotted
jags that disrupt clear
vision, practically invite tearing up,
the rider’s grasp upon the glass
not as firm as it might be, nor
upon the brush either.

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Here’s my poem for the 14th day of National Poetry Month.  It is also written for dVerse Poets Pub “Poetics”  challenge asking for poems about subways, hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld.  Since I live in NYC, and have written many posts about the NYC subway, I wanted to go for something a bit different.