It's called the subway
because we are the city's sandwich
sandwiched between each other.
Seasoned with headphones,
spitting out a salad of sound:
The rattling of a collection cup,
Evangelists peppering us
with their self-consuming flavors of saviors,
and a child declaring,
"This isn't a real train!"
as if he just realized
he left out milk and cookies for optimistic subway rats,
Not Santa.
Tucked into the coiled metropolis belly,
The subway lurches with
Iron intestine indigestion.
But we're not chewed up and spit out by the city,
just nourishing it.
We're styrofoam packing,
thinking inside the box
delivered from ourselves.
We protect the real cargo: money.
Metaphors spill out the city's mouth
As we climb out the gut
Up the staircase
Over the teeth
and refill our Metrocards: lip service.
We always put our money
where its mouth is.
Emily Kirchner
Emily is a surrealist illustrator and writer. She is currently pursuing a degree in early childhood education to become a behavioral specialist.