Underbelly of the melting pot

old and dusty, old-time tunes on sun burnt records, love songs with strong hands

wound round their necks, choked out

on Manhattan

subway

cars, also

religion (Buddha and the good book) from all corners and the caffeinated

eyes

on the newspaper people, loud gin rummy guys yelling cunt over bad cards, guys plagued with bleeding, sleepy wives and too much

imagination

staring at the young girls dressed for a big day in the city, black women

in heavy

bright neon space aged green

felt hats, and advertisements for Godiva chocolates showing semi-

nude heroin chicks with rape on the back-brain and no littering, no smoking, no radio playing,

and you aren’t supposed to lean on,

or hold,

the doors, even if it’s some

grandmother

hauling ass

in varicose veins lugging ripped shopping bags with coat hanger handles sporting

a goat’s beard and a white film

over

her bright blue right goat’s eye, rats when you step off

remind you to watch the gap, and you head towards the daylight

wondering what it’s like

above ground