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Dank with oppression and thick with the scent of yesterday’s homeless, the underground waits for its daily infusion of apathy laced with hysteria. Paxil filled mouths talk of boyfriends and girlfriends who, for some reason, do not love them enough. Enough for that day or any other. Girls with long fingernails painted with stars chew gum and talk in Spanglish about Jose or Juan. I pick up the chatter between the Iron Butterfly songs on my ipod.

I see him looking at her round behind, wonder what he is thinking. I’d like to tap that. Nice body. So-So face. Does she go there? Does she? Mira, come sit down on my lap. Mommy, give me some of that.

I register his thoughts and file them along with other important data: The Bible Code, The DiVinci Code, The Celestine Prophecy. All dance together in my head as I watch the alpha male stalk his prey.

Faces buried in Bibles as the elderly rumble for seats. The holy are not to be disturbed as they try to get closer to God or is it Jehovah these days?

Jesus rode the subway today. He walked by me with his paper cup asking for my change. Feet bare. Wool hair. I closed my eyes and lost myself In-a-gada-da-vida.






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