Metro

Beneath the beating pulse of New York streets,

below the vibe and verve of seasons past,

a grinding rumble trundles with a screech. 

The howl of dirging trains approaching fast

collides against the silence of the dark. 

Perfumes of oil clash and harmonize

with all the smells commuters bring that mark

their surface status. They don’t recognize 

they’re just a guest inside the artery 

The route beats red with passengers, like blood. 

They ride the rails in still cacophony

and cross into the city’s tissues. Should

the heart of New York stop in marking time,

the whole east coast would be at “end of line.”