Subway Pome #63

My name is Salad,
I fly at night,
I sleep
like a train:

crossing the bridge on the Jay,
amplified
by the slower speed,
by
the great space
between the tracks and the water
the click-clack,
the rocking,
the time
between the back and the forth,
elongates into an elephantine
lumbering,

my right foot
holds the door
at the end of the subway car
open
a crack just wide enough for the thin breeze of
gray-pink New York air
to slip in
flowing
over my beard,
through my cape
to ride along the sexy curves of the molded plastic seat –

one lurch to port
slides the door
away from my foot jam,
the dam bursts
letting the traffic,
the river beneath it
and whatever’s below
in,

I lift my head
and I don’t stop
bloodshot screaming
until another lurch
convinces the door to close so that it’s resting back against my foot

and I fly.