fare

My controversial crash-course
in the big bad City
has been quite the sociology lesson.
The determined flow of traffic
in the subway that still boggles my mind;
the heavily-tattooed homeless
who once had enough money
to make the poor decisions
that got them where they are;
the awkward Upstate plumber
stumbling through a mass of people
who have a better understanding
of the way Manhattan works, as well
as its appeal.

But there are its moments.

Like when I see someone
try to hail a cab on a busy corner.
It's always easy for me on those quiet
Monday mornings, long before the commuters
have made it across the bridges and
through the tunnels. Most times
I'm the only one on the sidewalk
at 5 a.m., my duffle bag under my arm.
Taxis see me from a quarter-mile away, swerve
effortlessly through three lanes to get to
their next passenger, their next gratefully generous tip.
That's not the case at busy hours of the day, though.

And I believe I can tell a lot about a person
by the desperate wave of their hand.
Is it urgent or relaxed? Are they standing
on the sidewalk or on the pavement?
Where do they look like they're going?
To meet someone, to leave someone?
Are they arrogant, confident, secure, vulnerable?
Do they need that ride much more
than that cabby needs the seven bucks?
I like to try to determine these things
in the brief seconds I share with these people
from my safe and nameless distance.

Of course I may be wrong, but it helps make up
for time lost in my quiet apple region.
My naivety, my simpler way of life could only go on
for so long. I tried to keep it that way once:

like Rip Van Winkle sleeping
the world went on around me, she went on
without me.

Rise, and shine, and give God the glory.