Day 229: The Empty W
The W is empty.
For a moment, I have the whole place to myself.
This is my place now.
Make yourself at home.
Keep your shoes on.
Keep your mask on, too.
I can sprawl out as much as I want.
Put my damp umbrella anywhere I please.
I can even hang it on the other side of the car.
So I don’t have to deal with it’s puddles.
And I can watch it as nobody tries to steal it.
Because I have the whole car to myself.
What a concept.
The gears creak and churn.
It almost sounds like wood.
I don’t think it’s wood, though.
I guess no place is perfect.
And this imperfect train is mine.
Maybe I’ll sing out loud.
Or consider failing to do a pull-up.
Or fail to consider failing to do a pill-up.
Or I could do a little dance.
Or a medium-sized dance.
The possibilities are endless.
But my ownership is not.
That has a due date.
And it is now.
Before I even got the chance to make my very own scratchitti, a dude got on at 36th St.
I don’t know this dude.
Who is this dude?
He’s not invited.
What is he doing on my train?
Maybe he thinks it’s his train.
His Filas and awkward haircut tell me that he has no clue what he’s doing.
He doesn’t know that he’s trespassing.
Or maybe it’s just that my time is up.
I get it.
This is not my train anymore.
I am no longer a train owner.
Real estate is a fleeting business.
That’s a drag.
I didn’t even get to make my own announcements.
This is a Far Rockaway Bound W train running on the A Line. The next stop is Aqueduct Racetrack. Where all your fantasies come true. Stand clear of the closing doors, si vous plait.
That would’ve been cool.
This is, after all, the city of dreams.
Wait, no it’s not.
The W is no longer empty.