The man in the suit at the end of this tunnel
If you walk a certain tunnel in New York City between subway transfers you’ll turn to hear the echo of a man singing on the other side. You walk past the advertisements which line the walls from nearly the floor to the ceiling while making your way closer and closer to the muffled drone of rhythm only now realized. A more defined tempo and rhythmic pattern sets in with every step.
People walk with people. It’s funny how that happens. Like one mass moving from point to point with a shared frame of mind. Get to the end.
Once you near the end of this crowded tunnel, you see a man in a suit singing in Spanish. He’s praising his Lord by spreading the gospel in a crowded commuter tunnel. The man makes eye contact in an effort to reach every person while singing of impending doom at the risk of ignoring his God’s word.
The man in the suit sings of salvation with an outstretched hand to match a cadence in voice and rhythm. Cards of salvation passed out to anyone who will listen. Directions on where your soul goes and how to choose a path. A dummy’s guide to God given free will. A last resort to salvation’s promises. A How-To flyer for a life in His image. A singing salesman.
The man in the suit sings of salvation at the end of the tunnel. He switches from Spanish to English with each passing step. The man in the suit sings of salvation but no one is listening.
He's all fucked up again
The streets wake up before the light uncovers the spaces between us. Sounds of a beat falling heavy with a POP BOOM POP BOOM hit steady in my headphones the soundtrack to my world.
The bodega on the corner is already filled with a line at the register. One asks for another scratch off ticket while another orders a sandwich from the guy in front of the small grill. Their Spanish accents are different. Dominican?
The lamp marking the stairs to the subway reflects the sun now on the rise. Last night’s trash is littered against an oncoming street sweeper. I don’t so much see what has happened as I taste it. The longing to move past and the disregard for feeling low because isn’t that what happens every fucking night in the ‘hood? Well, I don’t know this ‘hood like I know mine. What is it?
It’s too early for the bums to be rushed off their underground cardboard mats. It’s too early for talking as silence is prevalent on a platform of people. An old man weaves in and out of view between people waiting for the train. He’s fucked up. Early. Again.
Here comes the train. See you later.
