Where the City Changes Course Tunnels exude the swell in fallow drops. I disgorge where trains change course, surface full speed for my office.
Conductors walk the length of trains, steer their route backwards, turn eastbound westering.
The Sting plays, follows another half-block when I am gone. Nunzio haunts bank machines and listens, dances stagger the dark Jordan Marsh display glass, hands flutter like pigeons from empty stares of mannequins. Sale today for charge customers only, the old man heaves hard at the glass backward, his last great effort to turn straight. We surge, sneakers, briefcases flushed to jobs, sun nearly raised, pinstriped, and Nunzio plants his feet, dummies behind the glass forgotten. Behind him, blind, Mamacita squeezes her socks, sick from wingtips, Reeboks.