I’m supposed to write a poem, I though, and I’m the least poetic person I know. Is it supposed to rhyme? Is it supposed to flow? I cannot tell you, I do not know.

So, there I was on the 86th street crosstown bus, heading to class, wondering. When you’re the least poetic person you know, on a crowded, heading to class, how do you write a poem?

I get off the bus, cross the street to catch the 6, and it’s leaving. I get exactly 59 seconds to contemplate my poem before the next one pull in with its green lights gleaming.

The class takes place, and Im off again to catch another one, all the way downtown on the yellow line this time, and then over to the red. The ubiquitous commute of a student taking four classes on two different campuses can really inspire dread.

From the West to the East, then South and back again to the North, but also to the West. On trains and buses and buses then trains, it can be a bit of a mess. From West to East, South, then back to the North, but also to the West, contemplating my poem while watching the people and hoping for the best.

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