The 113 to 69th Street
By Alyce Wilson

They’re back
there talking,
getting to know
each other. We’re
gonna have marriages,
proposals, all kinds of
things by the time we
get to 69th Street,
the driver says
into the radio; they
gave her a small
bus. A bus in
miniature. No way
can all these people
fit but we always
squeeze and make
room. I ran to catch
this one, too. To make
the early El.

A woman reading a
paperback appears
to cross herself.

For one second, a young
boy across the way locks eyes
with mine. Is he
the same one who,
Friday, said to me
kindly, Don’t
fall down?

That man has a
notebook full of
numbers. He is
marking more. In columns.

Riilka whoosh glide....

Last stop. We unpack.