53rd and Lex
The hanging dusty paint chips
with the rumbling rhythm from a mid aged drummer,
his eyes closed deep,
his body shaking violently,
and the bell on his right foot rattling furiously.
The sleepy commuters,
emerging from the cars,
like water rushing out of floodgate.
The music doesn't stop them.
Elevators, escalators, stairs,
they look for the best exits.
That was yesterday.
The trains still come from both directions,
with the same screeching sound.
There is only one rider, ghost of the virus, taking up the whole space.