On Seven train platform is quiet.
On Seven train platform everything remains without change.
On Seven train platform a homeless man in red jacket
is sleeping on a bench in twisted pose.
On Seven train platform is empty.
On Seven train platform time stopped.
On Seven train platform a robot woman is announcing weather.
On Seven train platform you don’t feel any pain.
On Seven train platform you can’t see the sky.
On Seven train platform is only allowed to wait,
but with your mouth shut.
To Seven train platform a train never comes.
Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.
and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.
Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.
She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.
She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.
I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
then I had to step off.
One flat violin,
the smell of garlic knots,
a loud woman speaking mandarin behind my back,
a Hassidic Jew submerged into Talmud
some praisings “Hare Krishna” from another end.
(I even saw Jonah a few times before).
The train dives like a sperm whale
into the gaping hole
into the underworld of Brooklyn.
One nauseating hangover,
First I was lost, then I was found on a Friday afternoon.
She sits across–
with the open legs.
Her gaze is on my face
mine,– at her lingerie.
And there is nothing left to mask
and there is nothing left to say.
the time is thick and cold
the train operator is in full control.
I want to run away,
but the train doesn’t stop.
I want to hide,
but He still can hear my thoughts.
And there is her
confronting her urge to conceal
and there is me
challenged by such ordeal.
The monochrome faux leopard fur was
perfunctory thrown on her shoulders.
A mute reproach
a radiating mold of multiple reckless episodes–
that once… o yes! once…
a screaming rebellion of hypothalamus.
I pictured her in my mind,
in the middle of the subway platform–
dancing to the music of the approaching
and departing subway trains.
A smile from the past
and the fettering grip of the headphones
a symmetry of legs.
Her faux leopard is alive,
it is looking at me, through her eyes.
an arrhythmia of the eardrums.
She is dancing,
her chiming jewelry–
a potential Golden Calf.
It is dry in here,
(licking my cracked lips)
The air is enriched with ozone,
the skin is being slowly dressed in soot.
Her breasts, once were rich with milk,
now they are just two envying each other
“The competition makes us better!”
I feel the hungry gaze of the faux leopard–
We often make mistakes, confusing the reality
with the bended spoon.