My take on the lives of people I walk past everyday.
There’s a woman diagonal from me and her bag says, “gotta love a good sale.” and I know she’s gotta love a good credit card bill. A man just walked by; hoodie on his head, red flannel, begging for money. He isn’t hungry in the way any decent person would wish him to be. And an agitated Caucasian man with a dirty sense of life to him, prepared to get off so he could capture the drug flag – or he was just sick of seeing the same remedial routine that people live off of.
An older gentleman sits next to me with a face of exhaustion and a briefcase that says, “I have a master’s degree in historical arts,” but that’s just one of the many degrees he could entail. And diagonal from me are four women who won’t be friends in the next four years or less; it’s a co-worker thing, I guess. What bonds them are their jobs and their divorces and their addiction to buying useless shit at K-Mart.
And the two women in front of me are connected by a random coincidence; just that they have a few things in common and so they think there’s a possibility to become best friends for life – a modern child like fantasy that’s usually smashed in a couple of months or years like the phantom existence of Santa Clause. And there is a women whose feet seem to speak her entire life’s’ struggles.
So many good looking foreign men with so little time or too much time. They gain inspiration from a totaled, disgusting place like NYC and I admire the admiration when they see a typical building light up. And there are many beefed up Frankensteins trolling the streets as well, with their planet fitness shirts and their bald heads that somehow always remain bald and their obsession with candy crush. Too many of them. And never in moderation.
Oh, the depression is running rampant on this train, like a hungry rapist who refuses to put his dick back in his pants after violating someone. It’s just there – hanging. No precise target in mind, just primal instinct. So the one Hispanic friend is left alone from her “friends” (coughs) gold digging whores (coughs) after they stumbled off the train in their stiletto heels and now, she’s dreading the loneliness that awaits the rest of her night. Although she has teenage kids, that can’t tape the longing for a partner. She still shares the bed with her youngest wishing she’d turn over in the middle of the night and get fucked like love.
All rights belong to and stay with the author K.A. Shepherd. This poem (as well as many other pieces of writings), may be shared with friends on social media networks, but may not be tampered, published, or sold to make profit in any way without the author’s consent.