These tunnel walls begin to dome around
our train car when we leave the underground
of Queens and snake into the river’s bed;
inside, the swelling cords of music thread
along the acid-initialed windowpanes,
between the poles whose metal scent remains
like second skin on every palm; his song,
alive, untwists itself against the long
expanse of inner walls; outside is quelled
by iron thrashing like ocean with itself:
These ceilings curve to amplify the sound;
these ceilings curve to hold the river out
that pours its weight against the masonry.
And he sings: “Darlin’, darlin’, stand by me...”
The voice is easy; we ease to a stop —
and hear the dimes inside his coffee
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