do not disturb
It's 1:41am on the A train and people are tired.
Solitary bodies bundled and leaning, chin into chest, temple to window, eyes closed, slightly swaying to irregular rocking.
New York is tired.
The train is almost warm.
but if you raise your shoulders high and scrunch your neck low, it feels like something.
New York is tired. Just worn out.
Seeking silence unable to hold on
to the state of waking.
Jarred by the periodic announcements of obvious things through the loudest of crackling speakers slightly muffled by the preaching of the shouting poet demanding your guilt, your shame, your conscience and your cash, all without rhyme, or meter, or one image, even, to snuggle up to.
Shoulders slumping and sagging because the trip is long
and you can't always hold on - sometimes it gets away from you.
Holding a book open, words unseen trailing off with lids aflutter.
Body curled and reclined across three seats, hands holding, enclosing but unclenched. Winter is long and silence, sleep, respite is rare - stolen occassionally in the soft intake of air, underground on orange seats.