9 to 5 by Adriana DiGennaro

And here's a man with skin like tar,
dark with depth
asking me for forty cents
forty cents exactly. Why?
My face contorts into "sad and weary,"
"unapproachable," "in a hurry."
Which is not too much of a stretch

To be stationary is to be targeted, I've heard.
To look lost is to be vulnerable.

I have forty cents. I have more than that:
I have a young person's haircut and an artsy shoulder bag
that invites subway scrutiny, idle stares.
"That bag is a conversation starter," I am warned.
"Pick something more modest."
I won't blend in simply to blend in
and when a commuter on the LIRR dons a defiant pink manteau
I catch her eye and smile.

Anonymity is sad and fascinating.
we wash each other's germs off our hands
then go back out to wonder at the source.
To a woman seated under
a beer ad on the F:
where are you going? Tell me your name
Tell me some middle-school memory plucked from the recesses
of your
mind or just give me your
stream of consciousness
give me that transit (plus transfers)

in Penn Station we stare up at the posted track listings
like churchgoers, eyes watching idols
suspended overhead.
I'll often get distracted
the shining hair of some pensive girl

interests me more
than a board

"Does this change at Jamaica?" they ask.
"Excuse me? You dropped this..."
All this bustle
you must hold on to yourself
you must make sure nothing
falls off or
out of you
when dodging extras in the
city scenes of life's great film

you must make sure you don't
lose anything