Thousands of humans paint the empty air that
lives on the ***** surface of the subway floors

They wait impatiently
for a train to take them to their eventual destination
twiddling thumbs,
no hint of conversation

Mesmerized by hand devices
and every so often,
a book of pages

Careless children brag in their aura of innocence
creating circles of shimmies throughout strangers with
more laughter than the concern of danger

Polka dots dance with legs no longer than
half the height of the turnstile
filing memories while adults admire
and flash photos they’ll show forty years from now
yacking about young New York and the old times it holds