These are the cold days walking thru the sludge and mud snow leaking and uncollected garbage scattering about and landing in slush piles that freeze at night. These are the days waiting for the bus in the mornings and in the evenings, and waiting for trains above ground in Queens before it dips under the East River and into Manhattan, with the wind biting at your ears and my socks are already wet from sweating at work and so they get cold too and the schedule says the bus should have been here almost an hour ago--waiting-- waiting--and its day after day of this gray slush and bitter cycle. Someone is always waiting for a train somewhere in New York City every minute of the day.
On the way home in the train, where its warm and relieving, we get drowsy, I see the rest of the hoi polloi gently slumber as they doze off and dream in a language I'll never know.
But the train doesn't pull up to your driveway so you get off at your stop and its back out to the darkened wintery mix that lays on top of all this concrete. Makes a man wanna sing along to Twin Shadow, "I can not wait for Summer. I can not wait for June." Then it makes him wanna walk down to Jolson's and buy a bottle.
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