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Her eyes half massed, dreaming of a coffee heaven.
The uncomfortable subway seat was no match for her worn-out body.
Leaning her cheek against the sticky silver post didn’t seem to bother her.
By this point she was as relaxed as sleeping in her own bed.
Her left sandal slide off the foot, generating a slight twitch from her lip,
slightly spiking her cheek to slide across the metal bar that supported her form.
The chalk board shrieks of the subway woke her from that trance.
Quickly she noticed her bare foot and without hesitation she put it on,
then looked around in panic.
Her left cheek imprinted with a red mark across it
she jumped up as the trains slivering forced her back down.
Then as the subway made its way slowly out of the station
she must have caught a heavenly sign
as she smiled and closed her eyes for another round.
Tags: New York City, Poetry, Subway
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Posted by Terry |
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* WPG2 Plugin Not Validated *As we are swimming through the pond of life, the enemy is all around us. They are our friends, neighbors, store clerks who constantly ask if you need help; waitresses who you tip well and your boss who is always smiling as he gives you more work. But the attack, confrontation, target may be just in our head, the lines of yellow and red, the cautions we create for our own protection. Maybe they don’t exist, or maybe we are just another duck in the pond waiting to be pounced.
Tags: Central Park, New York City, Photos, Writing
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Posted by Terry |
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On my way down the 6 train Thursday Night I was sitting down gently wandering around inside my mind. Those different stories playing and taunting my thoughts. The problem with creativity is that there is no off button and as you get more comfortable with your surroundings, yes even New York City subway, your guard is dropped.
Then without my knowing a man entered the half full subway car, he limped over in front of where i was sitting and started his speech. It was rehearsed in the sense you could tell that he’s done it before, but sounded very sincere. He lost all of his belongings and was recovering from an accident, he purposely had his right pants pulled up. His leg had holes in the skin, about an inch deep the largest one. He held on to the metal pole as he continued to plead for clothes, food, bandages or money. Anything that could make his world just a little better. Past all his words, his muddy clothes, limp, orange beard was one other mysterious item. A mouse. A white mouse with black patches, pouching out of his shirt. The little guy was balancing inside the shirt on one of his buttons. As he spoke of his situation and with his right hand held the pole the left fingers gently pet the rodent.
He stood there without anything but a friend begging for a little help from total strangers. The tone he had wasn’t of pain or suffering but of courage. His little friend was a part of that life of his, a part of the struggle, they were in the battle together.
After the train stopped and he hopped off the young pretty girl next to me said loudly to her friend. “That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
I would have said: “strange,” but it was beautiful, a fallen man under the city streets with a little friend who stayed on his button and enjoyed his company. The little pet, the speeding heart, furry skin and beady eyes that get him through the day. Without a friend to confine in where would we be?
Tags: New York City, Subway, Writing
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Posted by Terry |
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