oh, how I've longed
for these gray morning
commutes to the city.
the spines of these rusty towns,
touch the blue collar backs
of places most people just breeze by;
of Katonah or Mount Kisco,
in a stop-and-start share of the rails
to get to the apple at the end of the tunnel.
have these people,
these fellow commuters,
made painful memories in Manhattan?
have these souls left a little piece on the LES,
making it all the more symbolic to return,
even if it was yesterday?
the horn train screams and I look for
bunnies between raindrops,
which drool along the window;
it's like the living art of Roberto Burle Marx.
from White Plains to 125th street
with itchy feet and aniticipation,
a job interview and a club soda with lime,
and a nice stroll back up along the East River
after rejection.
on my way back,
within the postscript of a poem,
I count 23 shopping carts,
but I am sitting on the riverside,
so I can pretend it's all part of a beautiful equation.