The Above Ground 7

Filthy fingers, bring me back.

Many miles gone,

And here I am again.

Very un-princess-like

Standing in your carriage,

Loose bolts, steel and heat,

Raging beneath my feet.

Gritty heat of summer,

Flushing Queens stand,

Hanging on with the rest.

One thousand sweaty hands

Flesh on metal claws press,

Against your shiny limbs.

On the 7, it was no heaven.

Hundreds of miles away

And dirt-damp fingers bring me back.

Elbowed into your tin box

Our motley crew exhales

A collective swear when you brake,

Too soon mothers, vagrants,

Murderers, and babies yawn.

The colors of Corona,

Flash by my sleep-filled eyes,

As Warhol waves to Basquiat

On a dust-caked landscape.

The air, your morning breath

Scents my A.M. mind reject,

The Big Apple, forgot about us.

If you take me there,

I'll make it anywhere?

I thought I was riding shotgun

On your gnarled rails,

Through that urban thicket

But I hopped off

'Cause I was wrong.

Rumble on through

You squeal like you’ve had enough.

I feel your pain old friend

I thought I got off too,

But it was premature.

Just a passenger,

Between here and there.

Tied to you, for better or worse,

How deep your rickety machine roars

Angry, but you keep coming back for more

Ten thousand miles away,

No sleep till...

The smell of piss and metal,

Brings me back to you once more.