I need to stay awake, except
I can’t. I’m way too tired to give
a shit about my wallet even.
Nothing matters to me. How
desperately I want to sleep,
careening through these tunnels and
forward into history—
doors opening and closing—with
a blast of Hell. Hot air. I don't
care if I wake up in the wrong
borough: Brooklyn, the Bronx, or, God
forbid, Oblivion on Earth,
Staten Island. Even that. You see,
I live in Queens. I can endure
anything. Except the fear
I might miss something amazing.
Somebody telling off Mayor
Bloomberg. A dwarf. Suspicious
packages. Love. Death. Or Life.
I prop my eyelids open with
toothpicks like many commuters.
I remain alert because,
besides the rapes and suicides
I read about in The Daily News,
I also read about these rescues—
these babies born on The Subway.
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