Words on Words on Words

I walked past a shop basement 

barricaded by the NYPD,

where 3 policemen 

and their singular suspect shot one another

in the supposed safety of the West Village,

just around the corner from my first home

on Bleecker and Christopher streets. 

Descending into madness, 

I stand in the swirling remnants

of whispered nothings that seem so very much.

"I'm not thinking,"

and overhead an automated man asking the train 

to "stand up for what's right," 

while the pregnant

woman is kept standing,

hoping today of all days

in the sea of clammy humanity 

someone might cut her a break.

"I'm gonna let it shine,"

and someone threatened to throw

him off the train as another man

talked around and over - 

"move over, move over,

I know you can hear me" -

a young blond man

whose headphones 

and consequent deafness

were apparently très displeasing.

"oh my god, a lot" and 

"when you gonna take it off,"

and a plea, "let me out," 

an angry admonition to "hold on tight,"

I like to be immersed in words on words on words,

"you don't know why, don't say you don't know why,

of course you know why, I cried, and you didn't even care"

circles and circles and circles,

there's nothing like not taking a cab

and sitting in a puddle of human exclamations,

excretions, pore numbing dirt, and intense temperaments

Switch to the 6 to discover the next round

of stuck, not-even-close to whispers

that will be lost to the stifled air.