The Green Grass Grows Where The Rare Freight Train Goes
He stared at the case. It was full of fifty-pound notes.
Must be thousands. He picked up one bundle and counted.
Five thousand. Four stacks to a pile.
Twelve piles. Two hundred and forty…
Two hundred and forty thousand pounds, sitting on his lap.
He felt for a pulse, loosened the tie, listened for breathing.
Too late to begin artificial respiration. Should have thought of that before.
In one decisive move, he fastened the case, and got off the train at Woodbridge.
“I found it.”
It wasn’t really stealing. The man didn’t need it, he was dead.
“I won it.”
That was better.
“On a horse.” That’s what he’d say.
It was on the news.
“A man was found dead on an Anglian train last night. Police are treating the death as suspicious and would like to interview …
a man in his early thirties, leaving the train at Woodbridge, carrying a briefcase …”
We’re riding together but sit worlds apart.
The stockbroker, the mother, the hobo living in separate realities, yet riding in the same car.
The A Train zips from beaches to hoods to ground zero.
Our liberal metropolis is a kingdom of progressive “niceties”.
The A Train is a silver chariot carrying us through our politely segregated city.
- Mermaids, Mermen Ride the NYC Subway (wnyc.org)