2008

This new location makes it easier on me. Click the picture...

he wipes the seat with great care, despite not having bathed himself today.

i strain to listen to him quote Scripture at her inaccurately.

i wonder if it isn’t clumsiness to blame, but frotteurism.

she giggles as he tries, awkwardly, to lay his head down on her lap.

i love the annoyed collective scoff when the car stops dead underground.

three teenage girls pass a camera full of prom pictures back and forth.

an old man wears a daisy tucked into the band of his fedora.

she hands her son - who is in a jaw brace - a stick of gum to chew on.

he sings to himself, songs with choruses of, “that’s how a bitch gets shot!”

“i love reruns of seinfeld,” she says. four women screech, “no soup for...

now and then i smell fellow riders’ food, and crave fried chicken, or ribs.

every boy with a beard makes me think of my ex. this means: many boys.

“i don’t know what to say i believe in,” she says. “jewish isn’t...

a tourist with a southern drawl asks, “does this thing go any faster?”

“let me off,” she cries, turns, announces, “i’m going… to the...

“yo,” she says gruffly, and offers the young mother a place to sit down.

taking a new line is like visiting a new city. i get lost.

the man brings a full picnic aboard, and leaves a whole trash mound behind.

there’s no polite way to tell her i see her weave, so i hold my tongue.

two women, spaced by forty years, hold a long talk on an aloe plant.

no number of signs will teach people to step down to leave the trolley.

he changes seats like musical chairs, no seatmate good enough for him.

she rushes in front of me to board, then takes her time getting inside.

i have terrible etiquette; i wrap my arm around the hand bar.

i never knew how to keep talking ‘til i heard them discuss nothing.

“i’m getting off soon,” she explains, and holds ground for thirty city blocks.

his dirty look is perfection. his space is more valuable than ours.

the trolley halts in darkness, and an iPod fills the heavy silence.

the train comes above ground. the kid announces, “we’re in the outside now.”

a man in army gear talks about class with a woman in sweatpants.

on the platform he barks, “i ain’t tryin’ to be late.” well, sir,...

a stranger, in one talk, calls me not just “sugar,” but “honey,” and...

the city year kids are off duty; the car is splashed with red jackets.

i want to calm the people who stress over bumps. we’re in a train car.

she leans to look down the tunnel; she sees light and cries, “thank you jesus!”

i am no stranger to threats on the subway, but singing is different.

“get your hand off my fucking neck or i’ll break your jaw,” the man hisses.

her legs curled under her, she retreats into her iPod, gazing off.

zipped to the nose in her fur vest, she hibernates, and no one wakes her.

she loudly phones the friend, who can’t pick her up with five minutes’ notice.

the turnstile won’t take her dollar bills. with each try, she seems more desperate.

he makes ample use of the fact that their seats face each other, and flirts.

she can’t get out of her window seat, and coldly says: “this. is. my. STOP.”

the woman on the aisle refuses to move. “you’ll just have to wait, dear.”

four teen girls travel, same anxieties, laughs, and bulging suitcases.

mom doesn’t stop her kid from applying monkey stickers to the seats.

“some artists would be good investments,” she says. “…the ones we...

the conductor turns back. a small girl wails, “he won’t take my ticket, mom!”

“sing a song!” he says to the conductor. “nah; ‘less you want barry...

i can just hear her side of the conversation: many “oh my GAWD!”s.

on reality television

“i’ll talk smack,” she says. “i’ll fight. but i ain’t gonna for...

she says, “what?” he says, “nothing!” they both giggle. and the cycle...

the group of college girls discuss socialized health care at great volume.

he offers me the seat beside him, but will not move to let me in.

she pushes out and snarls, “well, don’t make things anyeasier on me.”

the trolley stops twice. both times, when the lights go out, she squeals like a child.

“mom had a breakdown,” she says. “they found her, collapsed.” pause....

from her mom’s lap, the small girl gazes at someone’s polka-dot handbag.

at 8 on monday morning, i board with brownies. all eyes are on me.

she rocks around in her seat with control, as if finding a flat back.

she’ll perch like a bird on the seat’s edge, scared to touch another person.

the man who boards squints,sniffs, and sizes up the placebefore he can sit.

it’s a pipe dream to be able to read with two hands while standing up.

the 50-year old guy growls, “today’s my mother’s twenty-first birthday!”

there’s no way to tell a stranger that he smells good, and not be creepy.

“shouldn’t have messed with that coke shit,” he grumbles. “all things come...

“my son drank from a cup at five months,” she says. “these kids are so...

he makes a sour face, and scoffs audibly at each person who boards.

people read bibles more often than newspapers on their trolley rides.

“i’m non-orthodox,” the jewish guy says. “it’s all bacon and...

she tries to appear dignified, even though her feet don’t reach the floor.

the baby has such deep eyes, i’m shocked when he speaks, and sounds babyish.

the boys confer on what insult to text to their friend. gay jokes abound.

she sings to herself,looks embarrassed when someonesees, but starts again.

the accountant stares at a business card, as ifhe’s decoding it.

she watches somethingon her iPod. i can’t helpwatching the window.

this morning we’re crammed in like sardines (except for the oil part, thank god).

she shuffles down the stairs we need to get into - loves the attention.

“oh, portugal! my second wife died over there,” he says cheerfully.

when i sit, she looks disturbed, like i sat in her lap, or on her kid.

the guy pops, locks, andgrins, and his girlfriend watches,fully mortified.

i’m confused by those who push to be at the door blocks before their stop.

the couple stare at each other, making funny faces, ‘til one laughs.

the old woman leans back; her glasses fall from her head into my lap.

she blows her nose in short spurts, as if a long blast would be offensive.

her cartoonish snarl doesn’t scare me off so much as make me giggle.

after a particularly poor night of...

if you’re well rested and cheerful this morning, keep it to yourself, jerk.

she plays the bongos with her fingertips on her own pregnant belly.

his child leans at a forty-five degree angle to rest on his arm.

the kid dashes through the aisle, laughing. i wish i was that excited.

the kid is anxious, loves the word “no.” when he drops his drink, hell breaks loose.

he tries to push throughus. “i get off soon,” he says.“i’m...

the kid’s videogame music makes the ride feelurgent, exciting.

“hi pretty.” he says,explaining, “said that ‘cause yousmiled. sign of...

“ain’t nothing wrongwith public transit,” he crows.“gotta get...

they talk at length onsome small social grievance. i want them to let go.

she wears a diamond- studded cross, and reads a book called the simpler life.

the businessman sits, gestures for his girlfriend to use his lap. she won’t.

“y’all got old people names,” he says. “like willy. and charles. and...

the man i’m next to fidgets at each stop, anxious to be rid of me.

a woman sits with two bags of groceries, filled only with cat food.

some people take such great measures to avoid eye contact with strangers.

a man, hands free, boards with a toddler who has two heavy bags; unfair.

“i love the snow!” he exclaims, and thirty sopping wet passengers glare.

a blind woman finds her stop, her bearing, just by memory, alone.

with narrowed eyes she glares at the couple, who use romantic whispers.

coffee, a tote bag, her phone - all things she carries just in her right hand.

Time-lapse video of the Fun-a-Day show

the SEPTA haiku were on display this past saturday, february...

she tells a story, and laughs; her seatmate listens to it, and doesn’t.

she rearranges her infant’s hair strand by strand, scared she might hurt him.

they kiss as if no one is around, as if they invented kissing.

he wrings his hands, looks down diagonally at the aisle, anxious, afraid.

she starts to falter. he steadies her, his hand on hers, though they’re strangers.

i’m bewildered by the guy who smirks at me when i miss the trolley.

they somehow even spoon as they’re leaving the train. they’re lucky they’re cute.

of his headphones, he says: “this is the shit.” then, to silence: “the SHIT,...

sleeping against the window, his head lolls with each turn; he doesn’t wake.

apparently there’s a science to choosing which empty seat to take.

our politeness in offering seats makes this ride like musical chairs.

she guards her aloe plants more gingerly than she does for her own feet.

she keeps headbutting my hand on the rail, and says, “stop touching me, man.”

he leans in to talk; she leans out into the aisle to avoid talking.

driver has a las vegas keychain, and dreams of winning big, leaving.

old man nervously mutters his grocery list: “eggs. milk. bread. eggs. milk.”

three teenage boys dance far more gracefully than i could on solid ground.

he keeps getting up, worried he might miss his stop and ride forever.

why i did this projecti get where i need to, but paying attentionwill take me further.

he startles awakeand looks terrified not toknow where he’s going.

“he beat the shit outof reg,” she says, and adds, “butjust ‘cause he was...

claustrophobiawas foreign to me ‘til yousquished me to the wall.

i like the resolveof one who farts and pretendsnot to have done so.

she glances at the window, sees her reflectionin the nothingness.

his sketchbook spills offhis lap, holding the weight offuture building walls.

despite the swerves andchugs, she raises on pointe likea ballerina.

nothing sadder thana couple who sit, and stareahead, not speaking.

boy in a lip ringpouts and nibbles, pouts again,not used to its feel.

rush hour crowd and twopreteen girls stumble on. “i feel cluttered,” one says.

her hair is waxed andpinned to look like a birdcage.let me out, i think.

on the phone: “i hada dream he was ready toaccept jesus, yo.”

the thing about thetrolley is you need to beawake to ride it.

the boy tries to makeeven sneezes sound thuggish, and it’s kind of cute.

old man, hand shaking,grasps a carnation, wrapped in plastic, for his wife.

you let me take yourchair, and i want to thank youfor the body heat.

you miss the trolleyand flip the driver off. hecan’t see, and drives on.

boards with a toddler;restrains him; gets off, next stop.i’d be that tired too.

red hair, brown eyes, yourvacant stare; enactment ofdissatisfaction.

the girl cries. mom says,“it’s not a bad grade. you triedyour best.” my heart...

“can i sit here?” youlook at the mag on the seat.“that’s not mine,”...

grey, brown and black suits,but you wear neon yellow‘roos. you’ve made my day.

guys like you push like you know something, like even physics bends for you.

thanks for not laughingwhen i realized i forgotmy bag, and got off.

you fall; only i help. this place makes it easy to be a hero.

“i was so stoned, iate a whole pack of mentos,”i hear. my teeth grit.

jaded world - i board,you smile, and i just wonder,what did i do right?

lurching at a stop,you roll your eyes, like your im-balance is my fault.

climbing stairs two by two inspires competition.i won, but good match.

eyes glazed over, trippedon the stairs - hung over or just out of your mind?