People bring all kinds of shit onto the subway. People got their bikes on there, their dogs, their brand new 55’ inch television. You know what I’m talking about? I don’t know how they get some of this shit down here. But sometimes it ain’t even some shit you can see. You have the terminal riders-these are the people that just bring themselves, because that’s all that they got. They mix in with the high school kids who brings those fold up chairs you see parents in at little league games in the park. They laugh loud because they’re young enough to feel the feeling you get when you’re getting away with something. They think they’re the rebels of the F train, drinking liquor out of they mamma’s Figi water bottle. You see your businessmen reading the paper like they got to look important all the time. Your tourists staring at the subway map clutching to their cameras and luggage. And you got me, sitting in the corner of the car just watching it all like I’ve done since the mid 60’s.
People bring their talent-people swinging around on them poles, break dancing and such. You know you can always catch a mariachi band or two on the commute home. Listen to smooth jazz from the homeless guy that plays while you’re waiting in the steamy station for the damn train to come. You see what I’m saying? It’s always something. Something to smell, something to fear, someone to share a moment with at the gyro stand.
People bring all kinds of shit. Shit you can see, shit you can’t, shit you can hear, shit you can’t. That’s what I’m trying to say, it’s always something different.
A Word I Haven't Found Yet 