No media. No mirror. Pornutopia fades like a good meal in the stomach. Trains need tracks. A no option journey. On subways the scantily clad sit next to those in black. You could be heading to Brooklyn. You could be heading back to Jersey.
Some curves are revealed and others concealed. One time, this commute, in the idealist metal that tamed the earth and linked the east to the west thus vindicating the Constitution, this woman announced the stops. She worked for the railroad. Her voice was hushed, like a Marylyn Monroe from Bayonne. The destinations were determined if not new.
Her tone echoed an innuendo promising delight. Now you're in Los Angeles. You're waiting for a plane. No trains of any kind. Someone said there used to be street cars here. You concentrate on home then see a building that looks like the one where the Jetsons lived. Hope is endless.
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