Yellow Line, Victory Train

Lady, you dropped your cig.

I watched it fall, unburnt, bent and dirty to the ground. You were busy tapping your unopened package of black & milds like an IV about to go in. Like a needle. Clear the air so it sticks true. No one needs an aneurysm tonight. You are your own nurse. Pick it up. Back behind the ear. Not a drop of air here.

And Sir, I’m sure that flash reflects perfect off the dirty metro glass.

You’re aiming for an ideal image of an idyllic view. Your camera snaps, it’s rapidly chattering shutter echoing off the car’s walls. All you’ll get is flash. We can all see from this bridge out to Anacostia but we’re stuck inside. So are they. This is a metaphor. For what? Ask your reflection smudged on the glass, immortalized in pixels and bytes until you delete it.

In the train car next to us they’re still celebrating.

One guy in his girlfriend’s shorts, red and white stripes with a single spangled pocket, is high-fiving a man with a red bow-tie. It’s a clip on. Another man has an American flag over his shoulders and a girl’s hand in his pocket. She’s wearing a striped tank-top with a blue-starred middle finger. ‘merica.

It’s the leap year of sports.

All over DC tonight young men and women awkwardly bonded with strangers over a victory no one expected in a sport none of us watch. This might be a metaphor, too.


The Creep and I

Of course, he sat next to me.
A dozen open seats don’t hold a candle to sharing a bench with a young woman in a red coat. Perhaps it was the contrast that drew him there—his torn jeans an antithesis to my neat dress. We could have been a fable, one of differences and similarities, of humanness, normalcy, transcendence. One without a clear moral but steeped in meaning. An Oolong parable. Continue reading