Metro Card

In my pocket and warming, sleeps a yellow ticket
that’s always good for a ride. When the train is
coming, an index finger digs into my blue slacks.
I lure out the plastic ticket, a cat drawn by a popped can.
Until then it lays flat in a brown leather wallet like a
Seal cd waiting to be played in a silver Sony disc-man.
Access to the underground world is what it gives me.
Russia, Korea and Dominican Republic just stops on the D.
We use it for where it can get us and when it’s done the job,
I’ll nestle it back, then go home with a belly full of Brugal and Kogi.


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