prose in the key of staying up far too late
overlooking the west side train yard
i see steel scrapbooks
no longer marred by the balljoint elbows
of graffiti gangs
nor filled with the same
huge cell phone wielding
red-scared wall street sentinels,
a few dozen train cars sleep
and for some reason
i imagine my past as 1982
and i miss stencils i never saw
and suits i never wore
you say i’m stealing an era,
i say i miss these things
you say you don’t believe in ghosts
i agree, no ghosts
just subways
