Don't sit.

The rails burn orange as the rumbler approaches. A few shades of lipstick are applied haphazardly. Few mirrors down here. Couriers cheating the traffic. Bikes and hand-drawn advertisement on their vests. Quite a few cappucino beauties with hair the color of insulation. That piss-soaked mattress tone. I'm sure there's a thief in the crowd. That why I grip my bag so secretly fiercely. Don't want to seem paranoid. New York can smell your fear. After I snuggle into the dirty nook by the pole, my favorite spot, I start recalling my regular Subway mantra. If you don't fit, don't sit. God, perfume is obnoxious. It's a struggle to breathe, today. The mystery asthma. This wafting fried food and chemical fragrance isn't helping. Uh oh. Here comes Bleecker street. Ciao.


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