Subway Ghosts

Your ghost roves among the platforms
of the six train,
where we met once
or twice.

I hardly remember each encounter,
except for the lights burning
neon.

“Next stop is Astor Place,”
says the voice of the almighty
operator.

And even still,
every time I pass by Starbucks Coffee
on 8^th and Broadway, I stumble
upon your memory – an apparition
of what once made my heart crumble,
disintegrate like sand,
with the thought of seeing you.

The one train
“is making all local stops”
And that man that we saw
the day of the blizzard,
the one you said you paid
so that you could protect me
is here again, talking to himself,
looking at me in the eyes.

I know now,
it was never
his performance
in the first place.

Frail heels against linoleum.

It is two in the morning, 

and the Times Square station
is full on a Friday.

Smudged red lipstick.

And I dare not look up
until the train comes
fearing that
in the multitude you stand
somewhere waiting
for the train to take us
home.

Scotch and sweat.

It takes seven stops
and thirteen minutes
from Van Cortland
to Washington Heights.

Every morning
on my way to work
I pass by 168,^th
where you take the A.

Why is it that still,
I fix my posture, untie my hair

“Stand clear of the closing doors please.”

If I know that it is not your hand
that is clasping the pole?