There you are, holding the book with one hand,
with your legs crossed,
reading.

I notice you,
I always notice guys that read.

The seat right next to you is empty.
I take it.
My hand touches your leg,
I shiver.

There you are, unaware of all the things that go through my head.
I am emotional; I got some bad news today.

I desperately want to take your hand, squeeze it. I need to.

I take a peek at your book,
“marriage”, I read.
You look back at me and I pretend.

The bell rings, my stop.
I look back at you and there you are, holding the book with one hand
with your legs crossed
reading.

Pods routed back and forth
Inside
Cells linked to the central nervous system
Soulless

The cry of a sapling
Lush, primal sounds
But deaf to the neighbours
All distracted by a stream
A tweet

"Doors closing..."
Repeated beeps
Launching sprints
Rivalling Olympians
But not all pass the finish line

The end of the line:
School
Work
Leisure
Three modes activated
Upon the opening of pod doors

A hurry
Never stopping
Never hearing
Never open
Of hearts
Wallets

A song from yesterday
The flower withers
Pulp for pennies
The flower withers
Only so much could be done
Outside the system

I was captivated,
Mesmerized by her beauty on this Bronx bound 5 train.
I drowned in her green eyes and did not care to breathe.

Her ***** blonde, bordering brunette hair waved perfectly.
Everything about her was beautiful.
To say I was nervous would be an understatement.
I didn't dare to tell her how radiant she looked.

Another missed connection on a subway line heading uptown.
Hopefully I will see her at Wall Street again.
It isn't likely, but I would like to redeem myself.
Or at least say , "Good morning."

I hate resorts and I hate vacations.
I hate birthdays, I hate celebrations.
I hate pop radio stations and I hate cajun seasoning

I hate New York I hate the feeling,
I hate being a tourist I hate sightseeing.
I tried being happy I tried doing the right thing,
Until I tried smashing through the glass ceiling and broke my hand on the concrete.

I thought an apple a day keeps the doctor away
I figured out that he's just running late on the subway

Subway Connections.
Your music in your ears
Your eyes to mine

Subway Connections
Where we throw our eyes at each other and then get off the train,
Only to transfer with each other and walk the same path.

But you're connected.

Subway Connections
Your smile to my cordial, inviting glance.
From my battle against your connection to a battle against my nerves

Subway Connections
They're fluttering and frightening
They're either missed or taken.

Subway Connections
**We missed.

The gap between the platform and the subway car
seems to grow the closer you get to it
Until crossing it seems like the worst idea you could make
But you close your eyes and brave the void
Taking care not to thin about the tracks beneath
So alive in their snaking routes and tortured screeches.
The doors shut abruptly once you've sardined inside
And its all you can do to grab onto something, anything
Before the wheels begin to turn again
And you're lurched into some other time,
Some other place
As the tunnels decide what your fate will be.
And the doors will open again
As a ghost of a platform appears
But commuters be weary
For the tunnels and the tiles can be deceitful
So as you leave the decay
And the fractured tiles behind
Take caution
You might not notice it at first
You might not notice it at all
But the subway tunnels are unpredictable
And they enjoy making the rules
So the vortex you thought you imagined with the tunnel's lights speeding past the windows of the train
Might have actually transported you to some unknown city
To some other dimension
And there's no turning back.

They’re all in a hurry.

All of these brave men and women are in a hurry.
They’re anxious to get home and ******* before their significant others arrive,
ready for a home sweet home experience,
with fine wine and cheesy shows on the tube.

Life simply goes on in cycles,
like a loop video on the metro CCTV.
No heart attack spikes, no heavy breathing, no chance for a near death experience.

We are all obedient mother/father *******,
waiting for the wind to put down the big old tree in front
of our house, so we can have a hot topic on our Facebook walls.

Trying to be different,
mostly in a verbal manner,
is like performing **** with a ***** dolphin,
in front of a tank full of happy sharks.

We’re all in a hurry,
tryin’ to get back home
and ******* good
before the significant part of our life begins.

the cracking concrete stairway practically reeks darkness
this is the entrance to the labyrinth.
step by step constantly downward until the sliver of sun that you always thought would be visible has finally disappeared
and left nothing but the blinking of the dim artificial light broken by time.
the warmth you surely felt outside has been leeched away
leaving a constant chill to raise the hairs on your arms
every time the ghost of a subway train emerges from the depths of the tunnels to all sides.
crude steel and fissured tiles paint the portrait of the lives that have passed through here
the tracks making no distinction between foreigner and local as they dole out their fates.
and every rushing train blurring the shadowy lights of the tunnel
reaffirms your suspicion that this is a vessel through a vortex in disguise as a breaking down train.
and as the doors slide open once the wheels lock and screech in agony until the momentum is stopped,
take caution
for the city you exited from into the subway
may not be the same you’ll enter here.

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