G Train

When asked for advice

on moving to the city,

I tell people

that first,

it will be beautiful, but

the first bad day you have here

may very well be one of the worst

you’ve ever had,

and trust me, you’re going to cry.

Probably more than you’d like.

Probably more than necessary.

Second?

The G train is by far the safest place to weep, crumble, fall apart

or whatever synonym you want to use

for break down.

The subway cars are often

empty,

but even when they’re not-

they’re inhabited only by

brooklynites and New York natives.

Both of these populations

inevitably speak the language

that you’re beginning to

fully comprehend.

They know.

Wanting a sanctuary

when you can’t run from

all the pain squirming underneath

your skin.

Being

kicked to a curb of cement

when they promised the curbs were gold

and full of

hope.

They know,

and they will not ask.

They too

have lived a life

that maybe,

they are not (always) proud of.

They’ve been wronged just as much

as they’ve been righted,

and all of them,

whether above or below the ground,

are in search of a better place.

A shelter

just as much as

an escape,

and the promise of

something, someone, somewhere better

just down the line.