nostalgia down below
its 60 years since I was the king, beating old ladies to rush hour seats on the E train to 169th street. numero uno, head of the pack rushing manically up 4 flights of stairs, high school text books tucked under my arm like a football, with hundreds of time thirsty crazies headed home, freed from their office prisons, on my tale. up and out of the hole I charged, the gold ring, being 1st on the Q17 bus line at 169th street in Queens, 3 out of 4 times. the subway charged my being. and charge I still do with every particle of my being. look at my photo. at 76 you still can see in my eyes that cunning intelligence looking for the opening, the opportunity to sprint ahead of the pack, that smug tooth pick in my mouth projecting my stance as a winner, warning all comers.
Ruby and Ava, my grandchildren, ride the subway to school as I did. they are getting charged up as I did. the subway in New York is the metaphor of life. on your toes, share tight spaces with the human bouillabaisse, have your prejudices rubbed in your face daily, desensitizing you. bury me at west 4th street.