I’ve taken trains all over,
from Banff to Buffalo
to several famous European stations –
and now that I’m an expert,
it’s time to let you know
which train’s the very finest among nations.
The New York City subway!
The subway of my youth
and many, many visits in adulthood!
Read on for all the reasons –
I promise they’re the truth –
it merits not just reverence, but culthood:
While waiting on the platform,
you can observe – quite near –
the native fauna (cockroach, rat, or pigeon),
plus fascinating humans
pretending not to fear
a trackside shove (but sweating just a smidgen).
Then, soon, except on weekends,
you’re boarding and your legs
are getting a free workout as you rocket
toward any spot that’s empty
and free of soda dregs
and far from folks you think might pick your pocket.
The subway’s not for sissies.
It toughens you right up
with scents the opposite of fresh and piney,
brake squeals that beat your eardrums,
and seats that gently cup
nobody, whether large or small of heinie.
Unlike in other places,
hung up on etiquette,
it’s fine to eat while riding – food’s provided,
from bars of stolen candy
for sale, to (better yet!)
French fries with which your shoe has just collided.
There’s also entertainment:
although, these days, it’s rare
to see a dance troupe swing from pole to ground, you
can always catch the podcasts
and children’s games that blare
from plenty of the cell phones that surround you.
And best of all, the subway
is proof this town looks out
for everyone: who needs a comfy bedroom
when you can sleep for hours
right here, come rain or drought –
and then inside a squad car with good headroom?
Just one thing needs improvement:
although there’s poetry
on city-sponsored posters (hard to miss one)
that dot the subway network,
no poem is by me.
But here’s an easy fix, New York: pick this one!