My Poet stands behind the yellow line, contemplating the sign, “Danger High Voltage”. Imagining herself shocked to life, her comic book skeleton glowing through her spread-eagled flesh.
The Police Officer rides under the guise of protection, but doubts her credentials to ride. It’s always harder to find the ticket when someone is waiting; stomach and heart bouncing and racing off their tracks.
Riding trains bloated with faces and bodies, dangling and surrendering to the sway of each stop, straps lassoing the napes of riders’ wrists.
Diverse mosaic, nonsensical neighbors, the ill-looking suit with complexion as gray as the traffic of pigeons, sits next to a circus of tattoos crowned with a Mohawk atop a face angry with piercings.
Some rides childlike and odd, like winking at hairy belly buttons, staring at eye level; others are rebellious and dangerous, like graffiti out the window, bloodying gray walls.
Riding empty trains, in late, dark hours, solitude finds her both comforted and frightened. Sponging headlines from newspaper curtains, or mindless in daydream. She eyes the sleepers, smelling of gin, boogeymen only pretending to slumber.
My Poet rides lurching trains, trains that suddenly stop, and those unexpectedly delayed. The ride is always the same and always different, and my Poet knows that she cannot get lostas long as she continues to ride.
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