The Orange F

The slick snake slid through a tight dark tunnel.
The twisted metal ached and squealed.
I felt the inertia push and pull me like an invisible wave.
Screams and laughs laced under
the piercing echo of a child wanting it's mother.
Voices in cheer and in anguish
each convey a mental state to those open ear holes.
Coats brushing against each other indicate a sense of
hustle and bustle between the mechanical shutting of doors.
The heavy scent of perfume mixed in bleach slid it's way up my nose.
A smell that struck me as civilized and insane
like a beach blanket covered in snow.
A bright green gum slapped to the roof of my mouth
as my tongue milked it's sweet apple juice.
With the slide of a yellow card metal turns
a world is opened an underground spaghetti of steel slides.
I laid my head back and tried to envision
Being hurled under sky scrapers
that twinkle and glow in the brisk night air.
Just another layer of a complex means to movement.
The F train is known for its' pumpkin orange color
and its' easy uptown run. Like a sprinter being pushed
by some unknown force to beat his best time I attentively
follow the seconds tick tock away.
Broadway and Lafyette next stop second avenue.
A gruff speaker takes the place of my conscious mind.
Now I slip under a colony of ants
knowing the world they are in
not the universe in which they live.