Bitter letters at bus stops. The MTA has found another way to rape. She fell for the NSA. Peeling benches that read forever and stars now belong to gangs. Smoking girls and blue tooth men. The delays of convenience and the smell of poorly dried laundry. Lines become crowds and no one knows that ladies go first.
Sleeping purse clutching and seated far from luggage watching. Next bus please and heavy sighs, over zealous wallet reaching. Apology accepted, won’t you please give these seats to the elderly or disabled? Do you have identification, sir? We have to get to work. There’s no respect for the elderly and let the disabled park in better places. Over the bridges and through the hoods to train stations we go. Working shoes that step to the back of the bus while couples rest on crooked shoulders.
Transfers to the train and clusters of smoking degenerates that greet you before you escape into the earth. Service changes, the weekender voice cuts through the humming underground silence. Start here. Go anywhere. But not there, the trains don’t run there.