james mcneel

Subway to Harlem

Night is a knowing glance. Cicadas.
        Used condoms. Numbness where there should be sound.

I can taste her in my tears, the salty streams
        a semblance of her come and from where she came.

New York! That dream.

Alone on a subway train-the air erring,
        the floors fogged over by sweat and the Times,
the Poetry in Motion adverts perspiring-

I begin my doodling dance.

Rhythmic to ruin, the sweltering swell soothes and cools the rushing room.
Eyes closed, afraid to see,
        I think I feel her
        next to me.