Toronto Subway Poem/Poet-TTC Rider

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Toronto Poet of the Subway Train

 

I’m thinking double space it all

And send it to the Sun.

I’m  writing on an envelope shard

The perfect pensive bard

The wise-girl opposite in a skirt

Gives me a smirk.

Me that has seen the Hidden Onagri at Pearson,

Throwing fat metal darts at the sky. Pierce Sun,

That other gal opposite is reading Thomas Mann.

I am Lord Denizen of the Underground-

Toronto’s digestive tract or

The metro–Toronto’s womb disgorging people

Its Catacombs.

 

The swaying and the braking of the moving metro

Stirring our lives into existence

The common folk.

All inscrutable.

Eyeing surreptitiously.

Stations being called

The train brakes and takes off

A wild man’s wail.

Aooooooooooo!! Like

Someone sharpening a knife on a grinding wheel.

A babble of minds is here

Inaudible Babel.

It’s rude to stare I’m staring

Under cover at everyone

The man reading; a grin on his face

Really!

He’s missing his glasses and grimacing in

His effort to read.

The mp3 (Sorry,this was way back before the iPhone) players in

All shapes and sizes

Prized crystal balls

Consulted and reprogrammed by various listeners

The uninitiated

Wonder? The new immigrants and aliens ponder

This strange amulet with earplugs?

Classy bags,

Fancy pants and the Matrix coats.

Two school girls oblivious to this fashion parade

Eat huge burgers and talk loudly

About Jim’s new date.

It’s rush hour and the sardine packing begins.

The train is rollicking

And everyone hanging on to the top bar.

Some innocents are exposing laborers’ underarms

To the professors and dons.

“I’m sorry they mumble for working all day

It was hot and sweatshirt is all wet

There was no changing room

So if you want I can take it off here and now

And perhaps change my shoes. Caked with mud.

Don’t look affronted by my smells.”

Torontese, repartee near the door

‘Cool down man, Take a valium.!’

Look away; now those ads above your head

The map telling the stations’ fable

A modern Peutinger Table.

 

Labyrinthine exits go left or right?

Stairs for smoking, hot dog stands

Front Street.

Free newspapers, bouquets for your sweet.

Then again,

Turnstiles, tollbooths and tickets

Tokens, transfers and passes

Old men ladies and lasses.

Take a streetcar if you desire

Or a bus if it transpires.

The train brakes and then takes off.

 

Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen

Come climb down

And meet the world

In the TTC.

Some writers long ago said

And everyone scoffed

People shall live underground

On the moon, an entire nation.

This is Moon-Station.

Everyone a reader

Karl Shakespeare, Wells Pearl and Tan,

Proust, Salinger, Bradbury, Agatha, Wodehouse

Dan, Joyce and Wilde.

You name it reads like a guide.

 

An unsung poet I trudge

The railed corridors I judge

Canada beauties and mums

Coffee cups; chewing gum

Kids off to school, read their text

St. George is next.

 

I’m wondering why do they even not send a rejection slip now?

They just ignore it?

How does a writer get printed? How?

Poems, novels and stories?

(Aside–He was not yet a blogger, it seems.)

 

That lady there is busty in her crossy -word

Come on look up

Show us your beautiful eyes (shades of Paul Newman)

(And Paul said ‘Lady I know you have beautiful tits(breasts he must have said) but I am not asking you to show them.’)

Come on look up give us a look.

Alas grand ignore

Its music, paper or book.

 

Sometimes you search for that ultimate question

The primal pick-up line

Have I not met/seen/that book is great/

Ah the coffee; yes its very cold; no I’m not married.

 

It’s hard down there

To be an innocent observer.

How Lord O can I be a part of their lives

Forever riding these trains?

 

Turbans, toupees and Togas

Meet Fernandez, Tula and Degas

Bells, buckles and tongue pins

Going to Church or for your SINs?

Buskers, Chinese and Slav

Banjos, accordions and guitar

And yes once I did see the sitar.

Hues and dyes of hair

Tattooed legs stockinged and bare.

 

Could I please get the title?

Of official recorder of deeds, fashions and mores

In the year 2005 CE

The poet le? La TTC.

4 thoughts on “Toronto Subway Poem/Poet-TTC Rider

  1. You captured the spirit of riding the subway beautifully.

    “Toronto’s digestive tract or
    The metro–Toronto’s womb disgorging people” …. I’m going to be thinking about this on the subway today 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I especially like this line: “I’m sorry” they mumble for working all day.

    Your poem is theater (theatre) of the inner voice. I don’t know if anyone has done this before, Theater of the Mind, but that is what your work here is to me. I saw the whole metro ride acted out inside my mind. No one on the metro is saying anything out loud, you wrote it silently, and I view it quietly in my mind, but, yet, there are a lot of people making statements by body language, expression, eye contact, extenuating noise. Very good. Very interesting.
    G.

    Liked by 1 person

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