THE F TRAIN
Stand clear of the closing doors please.
The dust settles with a cloud of unhappiness looming.
Everyone on the F train is miserable.
It’s crowded, and it’s hot outside.
There’s beads of sweat approaching my eyes,
as I desperately try to roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt.
The woman in front of me has her eyes closed.
She is tired. I am tired.
This is 42nd street Bryant Park
the doors open and sticky, pee filled air, wafts towards our noses.
‘I’m a lady, have you no manners?’ she says
A black woman sits down on the train
There’s an old man beside her puzzled.
‘Don’t you run into me and push me,
I’m right here. I should get to sit down.’
Women lock eyes all across the train.
A blonde lady smiles at me with a giggle
I look back at the old man.
He is tired too.
‘Seriously, people these days. No respect.’
She’s gone too far. Now it’s a spectacle.
The old man deserves a seat too
but I’m standing, I have nothing to offer,
not even a look of sympathy.
This is 57th street.
We’ve passed a whole stop and I failed to notice.
I am tired.
I worked through lunch, and there was no time for breakfast.
In New York you can make the choice,
make dinner, or call your mother.
You only get one.
and everyone on the F train is miserable.