smith and 9th

up from the tunnels-
to this, the clearest sight in Brooklyn.

how sweet and expected-
the golden sheets delicately
holding late Tuesday afternoon,
the comforts of viewing
that can only come with distance.

squares of sunlight flash through the car
passing flock and disappear, 
framing the riders the bridges
the superfund sites the buildings all the same.

in the space between us, no words are said.
a phone plays trap music,
a baby wails,
an announcement is lost inside an old speaker.

an old man sleeps across from me,
clearly used to all this leaving and arriving.
he cups his heavy head in an open palm,
eyes closed beneath the glow,
as the train goes rattling across the sky.

©2023 Niall Cunningham