In neon-amber light,
under the El,
sitting at the table,
he waits for the vibration to travel the floor,
enter through his toes,
shake his soul, his bones, his teeth.
Under the El,
the pen still in his hand
under the skeleton of orange lace-light
blinking across the table,
on and off and on and off from
Bloomburg’s Deli,
locked and shuttered,
he listens to the roar of people
raging below the window
silently baring their brains to heaven
under the El.