subway poems
In February of this year I made myself write something in my iPhone notes at least once a day while commuting, usually about commuting, in an effort to force myself to make words, and because commuting presses you up against your fellow humans more than most things do, and I do love a good uncomfortable pressing. This is a very minimally edited version of a few weeks of that.
Monday
Kenzi and I decided against a cab, took the L train home. We got on and heard it was showtime. The dancers were the best I had seen. I wanted to thank (compensate?) them for their performance but I only had a twenty and times are tight.
Tuesday
A woman tripped in front of me heading up the stairs away from underground and towards street and open sky. She tripped even though she was wearing sneakers, just the regular kind, which did not match her jeans, which were flared and felt dated, I wonder if those will every really come back. The man next to her extended a hand, grabbed her arm, asked are you okay?, ensured she didn’t actually fall. I assume she thanked him but then she sped up, distancing herself so that they didn’t have to share too much intimacy. It makes us uncomfortable, eye contact, gratitude, proximity, especially so early, especially on subway stairs
Wednesday
A woman had been on the train for a while before she pulled out a very worn book. There are enough descriptions of old books out there. Pick one. This one had been used thoroughly. It was called The Lucky Star Dream Book.
She flipped through pages, jumping around, like she was both browsing and searching unsuccessfully. I caught a number of words. One page read:
Tombstone
Toothache
The latter was underlined.
Thursday night
I got on the G train going in the wrong direction which will forever make me feel like a nincompoop. Missed the first stop, got off at the second, got a whiff of my old neighborhood, knew that part of me could have walked out onto the street and resumed an old pattern.
That’s the good thing about moving around so much, inside a city or out, of gypsy-ing a bit, there are more places where you feel at home.
Friday
Shoved my mother into a G train, two little sardines in a sardine can holding hands.
Monday
We heard a blizzard was coming, all left early. The skeptics pitted against those who wanted to sled. We braced ourselves for a storm, piled into subway cars smashing up against each other like a bag of marshmallows hurtling over a river. Likewise in the wine store (more bracing and crowding), but we kept ourselves in a line there, orderly with bottles in hand.
Tuesday
No commute, no train, no pants today! Our only commute was to the park, to roll down hills and treat sledding as spectator sport. We picked up discarded pieces of cardboard and learned which ones did the best job of speeding us down moderate inclines.
Wednesday morning
The G train stops in the middle of the platform. Every time I run after it I feel like I’m in a movie.
Wednesday night
On my ride home all I want to do is bust out a boom box
Play Kokomo at high volume
Hand out leis and tropical drinks
They won’t melt in our hands but wouldn’t that be fun
Thursday
Nothing
Friday
Taking three trains to work isn’t as bad as everyone expects it to be. It’s just constant motion. I spend a lot of time standing in line. I see so many faces and outfits. I observe a lot of couples. At its worst it is an opportunity to compare myself to others and envy their bone structure or hair or expensive coat or the way their relationship looks. But I wonder if seeing so many different humans is like seeing so many different places. Good like travel is good. Seeing more of humanity can only make you a better person with more observations under your belt and inside your brain. When you’re feeling benevolent or particularly mindful you can try to say a little prayer for every human you see, and I’m sure that can only make the world a better place.
Friday night
Walked 35 blocks in 20 degrees to save $2.50 and spend $60 on dinner.
On my train ride home I listened to that Carla Bruni song my high school boyfriend put on the first mix cd he ever made for me, I’ve never fully understood the words, but it still makes me feel everything. My sentimentality continues to fuck me. What will the weight of all my past feelings be when I’m 60, the emotional equivalent of saggy tits.
Monday Morning
We play this game on the subway platform when we’re commuting and weighing the local train’s appearance against the hope of the express. Those who don’t give a fuck just pile into the local train. The thorough bunch on the other side of the platform leans over dangerously, searching for some oncoming light telling them to wait for the more efficient option. Some of us wait by the door of the local, watching them for some sort of signal or acknowledgement that they see something, that they are standing their ground. They are our watchmen. When they come towards us we settle in, everyone collectively giving up hope.
Tuesday morning
There are people who would rather walk the distance above ground and those who would rather walk the distance below ground and what is the difference?
Tuesday night
Back when I spent a lot of time on buses because I was traveling I used to listen to a lot of music and look out windows. I remember doing that one time and pressing the side of my forehead against the cold plexiglass or whatever that material is and then realizing and writing in my journal: the sign of a great song is when you can listen to it and stare out the window of a bus and feel like you’re in a movie. I think I watched Almost Famous too much in high school.
It doesn’t work the same when you’re underground. Staring at black walls of subway tunnels isn’t so romantic and music mostly serves to fill your brain. We don’t take well to quiet, and sometimes we leave our books at home.
Wednesday
In my new coat I feel powerful and constructed. Large and structured clothing draws our outlines and keeps us from having to. Bulges are of no concern. We are just intentional shapes.
Thursday
I’m thinking about sex
Friday
A grown man in a green beanie and large headphones carries a plastic grocery bag holding fruity pebbles, and a Nintendo shopping bag. I don’t care to observe any other details. I am going to the opera, and very proud of myself for getting off at the right stop. Someone smells like alcohol.
Saturday
On weekends the subway is more likely to feel outrightly enjoyable. You go somewhere presumably on your own accord. You take the time to read a book. You got some sleep last night. Maybe you got laid. Maybe it’s a magazine. I read mine to the tune of subway screeching and rattling and families chattering — a change from the silence that strangers uphold when we commute. It feels lively and instead of distracting my reading it complements it, or transforms it, does something.
