The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers. (delascabezas) wrote,
The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers.
delascabezas

  • Mood:

train ghosts

Sometimes you see them-
phantasms of commuters gone by
echoes of another life...

When I was a kid, they were young in their career.
Maybe a fresh start wife, or a new job in midtown?
Maybe a bitter divorce, and looking for a way to pay alimony and have a retirement plan?

Most trainfolk don't wear their rings- and that is the closest they ever get to being secret agents.
That conductor can't possibly recognize that
fat Fordham kid grown into a broken-winged man;
who stole his cap so many years ago...

But one look of that squint:
above the mustache doing the
open-mouthed gum waltz,
and I'm back...

Sun so bright it seemed to burn the air, spring wind swirling through a slowing rumble and a cheer from my peers-

My legs moving me away as fast as they can - from capture, from trouble, from responsibility, from the screaming younger face of this old ghost, wondering why I'm staring at him.

I probably wouldn't even make it down the stairs today
before some fat-assed MTA cop collared me.

Commuting may suck the life out of you,
but sometimes the haunts of the past provide sustainence
your soul didn't even know it needed.
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