Sitting Down - an attempt at poetic verse

And now, for something completely different... some attempts at poetry from the opinionated layman.  In this installment, we contemplate one of life's luxuries when living in New York City:

The subway, back when I was a kid.  For everyone today who never knew the subways to be like this,
count your blessings!

"Sitting Down"

Luxuries come in small doses

In New York City.

Down below

Where the scent of urine lingers in fetid air

Where a sliver of concrete is an island

Populated by dozens – even hundreds of people

For only a collection of minutes.

But it can seem much longer than that

When there’s only so much space

On that dirty concrete sliver of an island.

Trains come screeching into and out of the station

Blowing dust and debris and trash

Thin aluminum doors jerk open

And human beings of all sorts pop out.

Some pushed, some stumbling like they were leaning on the door before it opened

Most just rushing, rushing, rushing.

Only when a train is put out of service do people leave a subway car slowly
Reluctantly, wistfully

As if not wanting to leave what a minute before
Had been someplace from which they otherwise would have preferred to escape.

(“Sick passenger” is one of the things you don’t want to hear as a subway passenger

because that means your train is automatically going out of service

and there’s nothing you can do about it.)

So all ashore that’s going ashore

Having bolted from the train

But there’s no pause, no interlude... nope!

Even before the last person exits, others are pushing through the doors, clamoring inside

An intricate weave and bob and dance

As some rush out, and some rush in

Through the same little openings in an aluminum tube.

And let’s not forget the bags

The shopping bags of all sizes from stores posh and plain

The hand-held briefcases with their hard corners

The enormous backpacks with their swinging straps

The diehard travelers with their rollable luggage

Crazy moms with their strollers

Musicians with their trombone and violin cases

The Chinese immigrants with their bags of raw vegetables, meat, and fish

The corporate women with an impressive number of designer leather bags hanging from both shoulders…

Back in the 80’s, punks boarded trains with enormous black boom-boxes perched on their shoulders.

Older women in faded London Fog topcoats boarded trains with a flimsy wire basket on two bent wheels.
Everybody's got something to haul, it seems.

“watchthedoorswatchthedoorsHEYwatchthedoors”

cautions the conductor in a bleak voice that betrays the frequency of the warning

And whether you were able to hear the conductor or not, the doors suddenly spring shut

Whether you’re ready or not
Whether people are nearly sliced in two by the closing doors or not.
After all, the pace of the city can’t stop because you might miss your train

Although some people will give it a try

And push their briefcase between the closing doors

Or their arm, or hand

Sometimes the doors pop right back open as sensors detect the obstruction

Or sometimes they close hard

Or sometimes, to the amusement of those inside the car

They slam open and closed in rapid succession, pounding against the stubborn briefcase (bodily appendages have already been pulled away) like the doors are beating the obstruction into submission.

If they’re quick, the briefcase’s owner can dart onto the train

And everyone can proceed.

And all this within mere seconds.

Life happens fast in New York.

And there – ahhh! – in the middle of the car

But preferably at the end of a row

Or maybe in a corner

There it is

The prize of the subway rider

The throne of the victor, the patient, the weary

The orange square that heralds relief:

An empty seat!

Luxuries come in small doses in New York.
And most subway seats are colored orange.
Which makes orange the subway rider's color of reward.

The rules for the empty seat are at once complex and simple.

If the car is mostly empty, everyone can sit in complete freedom.

If the car is SRO, people may stand out of rare deference to others

Or because theirs is the next stop anyway

Or because they’ve been sitting all day at work
Or because personal space is also a valuable commodity in the dense metropolis.

Obviously infirm people

Wobbling on crutches or with a cane – are oftentimes given a seat

In a magnanimous gesture not wholly forgotten in the City

And obviously pregnant women are given seats too

But that’s about the limit of subway rider generosity.

Its that orange square, however

Gleaming from its plastic frame

That is the prize

People scope the car quickly

Their eyes darting throughout the car even as they dash inside

In an instant, calculations are made

Evaluations of the neighbors of the orange square

Is that guy drunk? Is that woman too obese that she’ll lean on me?  Might that kid mug me?

All up and down the car

And then, in competition with the others who have just entered this microcosm

You make your move, stake your claim,

And

Sit.

Triumphantly

Or sometimes in exhaustion

Or sometimes defiantly….

And then
You think… 

...What’s that smell...?