Subterranean Tales: Cognizance of the J Line

by admin on April 16, 2011

Cognizance of the J Line


I’m in desperate need of a good scrubbing from the night before, yet I don’t let that deter me from the task at hand. The dried puke, the rancid smell of fresh urine coupled with the shit and old food tracked in on the soles of peoples shoes have left me worse for wear. I wish they would take better care of me.
My few permanent residents have totally not recognized my generosity. Don’t I keep them safe and somewhat comfortable when in the upper world they would be out on the streets and vulnerable to the elements? Selflessly, I accept them. Within my bosom, in the heart of me I hold them, without passing judgment, without hesitation. They are my children, my darling lost souls. Sleep well. Bodies rocked gently by my chug, chug, chugging through the boroughs, my engines and brakes soothing there troubled minds and bodies with calming white noise. Let me take care of you, if only for a short while.
The gum has become a permanent fixture underneath my indigo seats, creating a spectacular rainbow of colors unseen by those who perch on them daily. Abstract art undiscovered, unnoticed. Spearmint flavored designs never to be exhibited. Abstract expressionism.
My windows, my poor windows. Littered with graffiti, smeared with the fingerprints of small children and splattered with the droppings from the birds that I encounter when I occasionally rear my head above ground from my subterranean refuge to drop off and pick up my passengers. The windows are storytellers, offering dreams of future destinations for them to perhaps visit or investigate as they disappear in the blink of an eye, opening yet another opportunity for them to daydream with each passing mile of track I progress along. Eyes in a state of astigmatism as they try to keep pace visually with the show which is provided for them.
My poles have been touched by every nationality known on this earth. Hands from Africa, China, Indonesia, Thailand and even as far as Iceland have found stability for themselves along their stainless steel surfaces, bringing together cultures not given the opportunity to do so otherwise. My straps, sturdy and unyielding. Grab on in reassurance of safekeeping. On poles of solidarity, you reach your destination.
I provide you with literature, billboards offering you a multitude of services ranging from medical to educational with a sprinkling of legal information in between. I offer you poetry, words of encouragement, words of enlighten. I give freely to you these things to expand your mind, to forget about the world’s problems while my steel reinforced physique keeps you safe and secure along your journey. They are yours for the taking.
This is your stop.
Soon you will leave me. Others will take your place, the same locomotive-choreographed dance repeated thousands of times daily without fail, year in, year out. I too will retire for the day, my wheezing breaks will inevitably stop for one last definitive time, my frame groaning in relief, a hissing sigh escapes from me as I come to a complete stop among the other car lines that represent their own exclusive lines of service.
Lights out, I rest. I dream of my blessed passengers, just as I know without a doubt that I am the last thing that they dream of before sleep overtakes them and for a great many of them, the first thing that crosses their waking thoughts.
Until tomorrow, last stop… for now.

{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }

meg 04.21.11 at 8:00 pm

Fantastic!
-Still a fan,
Megan

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