Recently I saw two hispanic speaking teenagers kissing on the steps leading to the 7 train in Long Island City. They looked turned on by eachother. They looked happy. Last night on my way to a variety show in the West Village, after I got off the subway, I saw a crack pipe next to the bottom step of a group steps leading above ground at Christopher St. I just glanced at it, verified what it was, and kept walking. I saw a man playing the saxophone on the platform of the subway station at 42nd st.
I remember the pock marked face of a heavy-set man on the train back to Astoria in Queens; his bulbous nose, his pudgy cratered cheeks.
Recently I saw a blind man sitting on the train with his trusted guide dog underneath the seat; the man wore those big dark glasses most blind folk wear; his golden canine buddy rested comfortably with its chin on the floor waiting for his command to lead.
I saw photographs of Steven Seagal on the walls of my favorite pizza shop in Greenpoint, Brooklyn where I order two slices of sicilian and a pepsi and am forced to sit through Bon Jovi songs on the radio polluting out from multiple speakers high up on the wall. But I keep going back. Earlier today I saw an old grey haired lady running to catch the bus--which she did--and I was impressed.
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