The train becomes Coney Island, when at Coney Island-
the smells, the sights, the feels
the same way it feels Manhattan once you cross over.
Crossing the bridge by train, the pink-painted or red-faded bridge
reminds me that summer’s coming round the bend.
The brushed steel train wagons shriek and whine arriving;
creak and groan away-
At the very front train car, I can watch the tracks
like when a kid on Disney rides and video games.
The 9am train doesn’t have the zinging electricity of the 11pm train.
There’s a moment, when two trains run
neck and neck. Tracks so close
we look pinched and calamitous. Faces
peering at our faces,
which side will win?
The snake of the train, the airplane of the train,
the cradle of the train.