in the moment, a week later.
on the subway
there’s old hands flattening out papery bills.
motherly feet bouncing feverishly.
this man is promising people his own future
of florida for a year,
how this city is too much.
“mucho dinero.” he jokes.
“next stop.” he promises.
there’s a complaint about shittiness. there’s a response about a baseball field, and concerts someone used to go to.
“i wanna get out of the city, man.” someone groans.
the speedy rumble of this vehicle atones for the awkward eyes pinned to phones.
i’m watching the young people with their pastel clothes, and the grown with their darks, and the elderly trying to wear colors again.
they seek out the spirit they used to have.
plum, indigo, burgundy.
but the youth is rushing to be old and the old is rushing to be young.
and everyone on this subway is trying to be somewhere else.