I am the lip of a granite step,
honed to fine-edge, whetted sharp,
a blade upon which you tread everyday,
come what may, c'est la vie

In the metro no songbird sings
though the echo is so strong, almost holy

Bring us home, click-clack, sweet steel on rail, 
Tom Thumb, chug-chugga

Elevated stops...shh...hear the air-brakes,
squeals 'round the roundest corners,
runners seek oil, high over the city...

On the subway home
I doze to the sports page
dream of powered
 drives to center,
torque-propelled
 strong hips, action,
sympathetic knees, breaking wrists,
the geometry of grace,
 the boys of summer
 
kiss the cheeks of autumn ladies

Sweet grass,
 new-mown.
City sparrows
 on ginkgo trees
in high branches aside the el,
lilt fossil
 melodies,
call to me
 through open train doors
to wake me
 at some station after mine

I smell my own sweat
there on my clothes,
the heat of the train
an oven, bakes me proper

I rise, exit
to debut on this foreign platform,
sad to have missed my stop,
to have missed my time

I search the faces around me,
for the one to help
 point the way back,
the staircase to the other way

cc: Chagall 2022/2013