If I could run faster than the D-train, I wouldn’t. 
I’d miss the voice telling me to stand clear, 
like it cares, and the slam poets preaching 
to grease-stained seats, like they care, and the 
dancers hanging upside down from the handrail 
for the infinite moment between Columbus Circle 
and the boombox batteries dying. 
I’ve never felt more known— 
chaffed knees, red face, pulsing headache— 
here, no one is going to fairy godmother you to the ball. 
Maybe other versions of us have already bottled laughter. 
In this universe, magic works one dollar churro at a time. 
Would you like a bite?