I need to disembark at 191st
But he is killing the old woman now
And I can’t disentangle myself until 207th.
I circle back.

At the 191st Street station, I walk down a
Sisyphusian tunnel - will I forever be that body
In motion and never at rest?
Any man walks towards me, a strong wind
Pushes from the Broadway end, in my face
And at his back.

He sizes me up, but I still carry Raskolnikov’s
Anguish inside me, and I am
Sure that it shows. He drops his eyes
And continues past me.

I listen for return footsteps.

I see women alone on the train, and
Wonder if they are at all afraid. I ride
The trains at night by myself all the time
And am duly punished for it.

Perhaps these women were already here as the
Streets grew up all around them, some
Aching, reaching wilderness.
While I am just an interloper
New to screeching subway brakes,
Hard, unseeing eyes, self
Conscious indifference.
This injustice and fierce happiness.
I fight for this Every Day.

I must be feeling Calvino’s Invisible Cities
As I envision something enabling
The objective and meaty city to become
Whatever subjective malleable thing
It already is.