The El

(I wasn't planning on blogging again - especially since I am sure people are done checking this. But I found this poem I wrote in Chicago the first time and since it's the last poem I've written, I wanted to post it on here since it was very much a part of my experience. so with no apologies...) 


The El


In monotone, I heard a red line man declare he was Jesus, the son of God
Or at least the next president of the United States, since we all know Obama is too young.

Today, Jesus wears a red trucker hat, thick glasses and two necklaces: one from a hospital in the arctic north and the other? The dollar store down the street on Broadway. 

Adjacent from me, a man catches my eye. Moments that were created on accident; apologetically. He hurriedly looks away but not before he tries to suppress a silent smirk. 

The haze of the evening sun smears itself on the thick windows of the train, mellowing the rush of the tracks and smelly stories all felt in a tiny, moving space. Deeper, together, we move into the earth.  

This is Jackson. The doors open on the left at Jackson. 

Jesus stays on the train as I entered into the underground mixed with heat and florescent lighting. I take the stairs, leading beyond me. 

Later, after the clash of the city and a yellowed darkness, I find myself here again where quiet people wait in tired silence while a right-handed man plays a left-handed guitar.  

I can't get no satisfaction. 

His lyrics bounce off the concert walls, floor, and faces until the rush of the el, clattering down the tunnel eventually moves the moment away from me, like twilight slipping though my fingers 

Doors closing.