The station sign blurs by
through a window, southbound train
and he wonders if the others
seated near him know
what Spuyten Duyvil means.
It's Dutch for Spite the Devil.
It's not a place, it's a promise
like the short life expectancy
of currency on a New York City street.
His stop comes up, he stands
and shoulders his heavy burden.
The nylon strap digs in, draws blood
from tender neck-flesh.
It's the price to pay to travel
where he'll never call his home.
Another price, another promise
another good excuse
for threadbare socks and dirty heels.
He's glad none of his lovelies
will see him act the fool
or lose his lucky boxers
in the worst of human ways.
Metal jaws close behind him.
He's committed to the night
and thankful that it's young.
There are worse fates than the Bronx.
There are worse friends than he's got.
He lights a long-awaited smoke
and sets his course for Broadway.
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