Creative Nonfiction on Long Works
The Forgotten Ode of the Subway Poet
Raw and unfiltered
I’m on the downtown A train, sandwiched between a woman clutching a bundle of newspapers and a man who smells like yesterday’s whiskey. The overhead fluorescent lights flicker intermittently, casting a sickly pallor on everything they touch. It’s the kind of morning that feels like it never ended, like I stepped into the subway at midnight, and somehow the hands of the clock conspired to bring me straight into the cold, gray light of dawn without the courtesy of sleep.
Across from me sits a man, the Subway Poet. I see him often on my commute, a fixture of these subterranean voyages. He’s scribbling furiously in a weathered notebook, eyes darting back and forth like he’s translating the hieroglyphs of the city itself. His clothing and demeanor made him resemble an ancient prophet. I’ve always wondered what truths or fantasies fill those pages, but I’ve never mustered the nerve to ask.
My journey begins in the financial district, where ambition’s weight hangs heavily in the air. Every morning is a rush of bodies and briefcases, the clattering heels of urgency. Today, though, something is different. There’s a tension I can’t quite place, an electric charge running through the city’s veins. The man beside me shifts, and I catch a glimpse of his face — sweat trickles down his temples despite the cool air, his jaw clenched tight like he’s biting back something he can’t afford to let slip.
“Everything okay?” I ask, surprising even myself. He blinks, then nods, a terse, unconvincing gesture. The subway lurches, and we tumble into the next station, the doors parting with a pneumatic sigh.
The Subway Poet stands, notebook clutched to his chest like a lifeline. As the doors close, he looks directly at me, and for the briefest moment, I see it — a flash of fear, or maybe understanding, something raw and unfiltered. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of commuters.
I reach my stop and ascend into the labyrinthine streets, the sun struggling to break through the canopy of steel and glass. My destination is a midtown office building with mirrored windows and sharp angles. The day unfolds in a blur of emails and meetings, the relentless grind that strips hours from your life without you noticing. By noon, I’m already exhausted, longing for the temporary solace of the evening commute.
But the city has other plans. A piercing and insistent alarm sounds, and the building’s intercom crackles to life: “Attention, all personnel. Please evacuate the premises immediately.” There’s a moment of stunned silence, then chaos erupts. People scramble for the exits, the air thick with panic and confusion. I follow the flow, my heart pounding, a primal rhythm urging me forward.
On the street, the scene is surreal. Fire trucks and police cars converge, sirens wailing, lights flashing. I catch snippets of conversations, fragments of fear, and speculation — “Bomb threat… no, a gas leak… maybe a shooter…” The truth is elusive, lost in the noise.
Hours later, after they give the all-clear and the crowd disperses, I return to the subway.
The familiar hum of the train is almost comforting now, a reminder of routine in a day that defied it. I slump into a seat, feeling the day’s weight settle into my bones. Across from me, a newspaper left behind catches my eye. The front page is a blur of headlines, but one word stands out: “Hope.”
I think of the Subway Poet, his frantic scribbling, the fear in his eyes. In a moment of clarity, I realize I’ve been missing something vital. The city holds more than its chaos and clamor; it weaves a tapestry of human experience, each thread telling a story waiting to be shared. My epiphany is simple yet profound: every day, we overlook the poetry in our midst, in the crush of bodies and the rush of time.
As the train rattles onward, I pull out my notebook. It’s time to start writing.
“Hey,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. It’s the woman with the newspapers, leaning over with a curious smile. “You a writer?”
I nod, and it feels true for the first time in a long while. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Write something good, then,” she says, her eyes twinkling with the wisdom of someone who’s seen too much and still believes in magic.
And so, I begin writing the forgotten ode of the Subway Poet, finding beauty in the unlikeliest places.
Ani Eldritch 2024
