The Ride

We lucked out, both of us got window seats.
But Boston looked the same as usual,
So we played cards and crosswords on a table between us.
We stopped in Bridgeport and after that, there was a feast for our eyes.
We passed small towns with brick buildings and blue roofs,
With chimneys touching the clouds.

We sped through small cities with newsstands,
Their workforce comprised of old men,
Who stood with their scaly caps pulled over their faces,
Their backs hunched permanently with age,
And the young boys who sat on the stacks,
Shouting headlines, or anything really,
Just to attract customers.

Some with old fashioned cinemas,
The grandparents taking their grandchildren to see black and white films,
That they once saw when they were young.
The intellectuals who walk in, in couples holding hands,
To go see the newest foreign film.

We traveled through fields and woods, past lakes and ponds.
In one town there was an old abandoned brick warehouse,
With broken windows from the local trouble makers.
“T-bone was here” it said among other things,
In the bright bubbly blues and greens of graffiti.

And down the way, yet another wall was being marked,
The juveniles had only begun their art work,
Until the train passed them and they scattered,
Like pigeons on Boston Common,
After a smiling child runs through their midst.