The conductor steps out of his frolicsome lair,
announces that no transfers are available
on 72nd,
66th,
or 59th
streets.

The pudgy, wrinkled Spanish lady
with a silver ball piercing her brow
asks him in broken English if there will be a transfer at 110th.
He tells her that there will be,
and proceeds to flirt with her
while I am left to wonder
how much longer it will take her to get to 110th
when we are at 86th street
on a downtown train.
She eyes me quizzically
as if she knows she is the focus of
the inquisition of my inner-eyeballs.

The subway rolls,
ceases,
screeches,
halts.

The conductor steps out of his cavern once more
to make the same ever-pertinent announcement,
and to flirt with a black lady with braided red hair
who is majoring in fashion design
(what an icebreaker),
at which point
a beautiful girl
hair curled by rust
leather overcoat that shines of posh
and the omniscient lip-to-eye glance
steps off the train
understandably because she was unable to transfer to
the 1 train at any convenient successive station.
At which point
a beautiful girl
pale skin
dispersed pale pimples
and fun-size hair that would flip if she walked
comes in
sits down.

I would like to sit down
but I am standing
and I can not sit down
because I am trancing
and if it was not so crowded
I would probably be dancing
tantric
steaming
melodic
progressions.

At each stop of the train,
a beautiful girl struts out the machine doors
as another girl of beauty,
unsimilar in style
but similar in amount
sashays in.

I want to kiss each of them pure
raf through their treacherous river
run through their torrential downpour,
or just sail on their billowing salt sea.

But they are just passing beauties.

I wonder what epic journeys they are set off to
what their night incurs
who they involve
and whether the sun or the moon
will pull them to the stars when they sleep at night.
I wonder if, when they are brushing their teeth
they are preferring
to be kissed
by me.

I wonder if I to can be a mystical beauty
who is passing thorugh the city,
long-wise.

I stop wondering at this point,
in order to wonder
why the pudgy Spanish lady
got off at times square.

perhaps she is lost
perhaps a wanderer
perhaps a lover
perhaps a prostutite
perhaps homeless
perhaps human.

It is all wonderful.