New York City

there are men
in the subway tunnels here
their faces like ghostly portraits hung
along the curving walls,
caked with the hard lines of living longer
than you can afford.

He mumbles something in Spanish and
steps on the backs of my sandals
a stutter in my stride,
a drunken giggle slides through
his teeth
and I don’t suppose he
laughs much.
At the end of the concrete I can
hear his
beer-piss spattering into the
puddles beneath the
tracks as
he tells himself stories
about old girlfriends and other things he
never got to do.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s