like a badly tuned but well-rehearsed orchestra of metal wheels on metal tracks sticky doors admitting tired backs intercom voice mumbles and cracks rats paws patter and nibble snacks
and age old water drips, drips, drops into age old puddles full of age old trash in an age old system of public transportation
And the choir begins to sing: "stand clear of the closing doors" "yeah you'd better look away--- "clear the doors" --you curly haired jew" "59th street, stand clear of the-- "you *******" --closing doors, please. 63rd street next" "you think I feel sorry for you?" "stand clear of the closing doors-- "I don't feel sorry for nobody" --please" "******* curly haired jew" "stand clear of the doors" "yeah you'd better look away" "72nd street, stand clear" "yeah, you'd better look away" "stand clear of the closing doors please"
"81st street next. stand clear."
An old homeless man to a young boy with curly hair sitting next to him. Completely unprovoked, the man slung his racist comments, and everyone, including me, just sat there, looking straight ahead, pretending it wasn't happening. What do you do with people like that? We just sat there. And all I have to show for it is this poem, commemorating mine and all of our cowardice. But what do you do with people like that?