I wish I lived in a big house on top of an abandoned subway track,
With hidden access at the basement for myself,
So I could ride in my own personal train,
And go anywhere I wanted.
The subway lines are like varicose veins splitting in different colors:
Red, yellow, blue, green in a city body,
And my subway car is a patrolling white cell
Moving through it all as part of a greater experience of living,
Seeking the unnatural to attack: foreign fun and good times,
Or maybe just a pretty view
Of the big moon rising over Queens as we ride along the Williamsburg bridge.
My train driver could drop me off at Grand Central,
And I’d step out and tip my cap to a rush hour crowd and say
“You should see the one in black.”
(What else can you say at that point?)
Sometimes on the way to the theater or something,
I could cruise by slowly and pick up a date.
A hot one, dumb with big tits and easily impressed (hopefully).
You know, the kind that watches Dancing with the Stars.
I know you hate this part,
But I’d have a fun time with this dulcet dolt and then leave her back at her stop,
My subway car disappearing into the night like Batman,
Or something out of a dream,
And come crawling back to you and your stuffed moose anyhow.
We could cruise by Yankee Stadium in the wintertime, dark and depressing, I know how much you would love that.
Except for the ghosts, Lou and Babe, Joe, Mick, Phil… Thurman,
But they’re in the parking lot across the street now, aren’t they? The
magic still lingers in the air, gasping for life like a goldfish in a
broken bowl on the carpet.
Sometimes I forget
Why I went on sports strike in the first place.
But we’d toast them anyway. And ride on by.
I could host parties on the weekends.
Throw back bourbon with friends and get drunk
The old fashioned way- you know,
The kind of drunk where feelings come out.
We’d have a jukebox and play melancholy songs as we ride and sing along at an upbeat pace.
Watch the moonlight dance on the river as we hold on to the poles and bounce our knees back and forth sailing on the slighted el tracks.
Or sit down and bob our heads to the beat of the bass, the boost amplified
by the pounding feet of ten million Unawares as we ride underneath in
our lifted locomotive.
Eventually they’d find out about it and shut it down,
Maybe have a front page in the Post to rub it in,
But it would be fun while it lasted.