I pressed my back against a cold
bench textured like vinyl records.
The teens that sit here spin
gossip like forty-fives before
the subway train stops. Their black
nails dig the city groove
of ears popping and the hopscotch
skips above. A man strums
his steel guitar to the beat
of footsteps echoing through
the tunnels. Like a tambourine,
the kids’ loose change bounces
off the concrete muffled
by his distressed Yankees cap.
They won’t miss the feeling
of Abe Lincoln’s *****, copper
beard between their fingers.
*More room to bury their fists
and dig the city groove.