on the 6 train to brooklyn
there is a man sitting across from me with round, wire-rimmed glasses and salt & pepper dreadlocks so long that, when they reach his waist, they are folded over another 18 inches. they are held with electrical tape. the bottom of his hair is black and so matted that it reminds me of a platypus' tail. i wonder if he keeps it to remind him of the time before it all turned grey. he seems too serene to deny his age, though. he's plastered his cane with screaming bright stickers, and he wears a shirt with a huge image of a lion emblazoned across it. he carries a plastic bag of prints with a lion identical to the one on his t-shirt. maybe he's just vital. i wonder what the prints are for. though he is dozing on the ride to franklin avenue, i have a feeling that one of his eyes is open behind his glasses, starting intently at me - that he knows i am thinking about him. i imagine that he is very wise, and i think of asking him some of my tougher questions, or at least giving him a shy and curious smile. but i stare at my dirty fingernails and out the window at the dark tunnel speeding by. like a real new yorker, i'm all alone in the middle of everything.