My New York

My ambitous winter white coat, stained with coffee spills and newspaper print, takes its place among a sea of blacks, browns, greys, and army greens like an optimistic beggar singing songs of salvation among ruins. I nestle in for the ride as some distant kin next to me murmurs, "Ah, this fucking life." We all silently agree, knowing full well we will do it again tomorrow. I see myself reflected in those sitting across from me...the man with a shiny ring and a hole in his bag, the women with eyes dark from sleeplessness and this morning's mascara. The conductor announces that I am still 45 minutes from a warm room and a hot meal, but the Mother of Exiles whispers "give me your tired, your poor" as the train door closes, quieting the sounds of the city, blocking out the wind, and readying to take me home.

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