these broken wings
One Sunday, I was waiting for the Green Line T on my way back to campus after bagels in flirty sunshine with a friend near City Hall in Boston. Our paths split, and I stood without company on that particular platform, typically crowded with strangers. Each time I find myself here, I take note of the especially moving performances of the same guitar player who looks at home against grey tiles with his coin-mottled case prostrate before him. Before the B-train sweeps me away from the platform and deposits me again aboveground, my wallet usually empties $5 into the man's guitar-shaped box.
This time, however, the miraculous appearance of my train as soon as I reach the tracks does not elicit my hasty steps to reach it before it becomes oppressively riddled with people. Instead, I watch them pack like sardines, having myself decided to act as "audience" today. Three trains pass, and the next B train is in sight. I stand up from the bench at his song's end and applaud - others join in - before walking over with a ten.
To my surprise, his familiar face registers that I am about to leave and his unfamiliar hand grabs my wrist. At first, I am irrationally frightened (dozens of people are around me, mostly super-excitable tourists), but then he lets go and addresses me in an accent that softly hardens the sound of "th": "Sing dis song."
Without a spoken word, I recognize the song he begins and sing "Blackbird" as others look somewhat interestedly on. My unexpected, unwanted fifteen minutes of fame end in two; he shakes his head at my money and speaks to me as the train I board rolls in --
"Blackbird, it is de dead of night."
This time, however, the miraculous appearance of my train as soon as I reach the tracks does not elicit my hasty steps to reach it before it becomes oppressively riddled with people. Instead, I watch them pack like sardines, having myself decided to act as "audience" today. Three trains pass, and the next B train is in sight. I stand up from the bench at his song's end and applaud - others join in - before walking over with a ten.
To my surprise, his familiar face registers that I am about to leave and his unfamiliar hand grabs my wrist. At first, I am irrationally frightened (dozens of people are around me, mostly super-excitable tourists), but then he lets go and addresses me in an accent that softly hardens the sound of "th": "Sing dis song."
Without a spoken word, I recognize the song he begins and sing "Blackbird" as others look somewhat interestedly on. My unexpected, unwanted fifteen minutes of fame end in two; he shakes his head at my money and speaks to me as the train I board rolls in --
"Blackbird, it is de dead of night."