Fulton Street Station, April 7th, 2014
Daughter and I were on the way to the doctor. I pointed him out. He looked like a poet. He was moving very quickly down the long corridor, book in hand. We dodged and scooted and caught up to him at the platform. Out of breath, I told him that we had followed him. He smiled, took the book. Quiet. Sparkle. Poet.
Idling in the effervescent glare
A hint of spring is in the air
Milling running fingers
through our hair
waiting for the beacon on
the tracks the throaty clack
An errant cackle the heckler’s
hoot. A rat the color
of a boot.
People throng of different sorts
arranged just so
so to exhort the proper
host of expectations
Young men in leather
kneed sweats, immaculate
kicks. Pretty girls all
in black like ninjas
beggars
Ladies with
suitcases and the Daily News
Every so often we share a
Glance as the stops role in
and make us dance
One word can open up a
world among the
millions passing over-
head.
Read: Explanation Of The Statistically Impossible Consistency Of On The Spot Poetry