In the clickety clack of rails and tracks
through entrails
to the upper reaches of Manhattan
east to the Bronx,
into the languid sunsets of Queens
to the other end of Brighton Beach...
Where else but on a New York Subway
will you find a Watusi
sitting alongside a throw-back Etruscan,
next to a Sikh
shoulder to shoulder with an Israelite
of Talmud locks and flowing beard.
Ever since, I arrived from Bremenhaven,
I've spent my life exploring faces.
Never found one, I did not find intriguing.
Same goes for the ladies --- never found one,
who could not be a goddess for the night,
if treated special nice by me ---
the Prince of Clubs.
Sounds familiar, poet?
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