the young poet in a subway car
Forever the young poet sits trapped in a subway car. Forever the man beside the young poet sneezes, and coughs, and wipes his nose with his sleeve, wiping his sleeve then on his pants across his thigh as he sat on the subway car.
For some time the young poet thinks of the outside.
Birds floating in the summer and darting low across a misty sky in the fall. Clouds bumbling over buildings and water towers, rolling along like a jazz melody.
The subway car smells like piss left in a carpet overnight in a room with no windows. Musky, damp and ever so slowly getting stronger. Or was the smell getting weaker? Either way it lasts forever.
The young poet presses up against the cold window looking into the darkness, even darker than night. Forever the doors stay closed. The yawns spread as others in the subway car contemplate forever.
If there were a tomorrow, the young poet thinks, then I will spend the entire day looking at the sky. The air in the subway car there
forever, and tomorrow is not any closer.