End of president’s day

In the the Times Square tunnel
for the 1-2-3 trains:
a trumpet and a mouth organ and
a little old man, all playing the blues;
a teenage boy, aimless and distant
with a pink pack and wild, curly hair;
young asian girls with shopping bags,
talking excitedly, smiling;
a mother and a baby + coat & hat,
no particular gender;
a few remnants of last night
in the far corners, dark, ignored;
rats on the tracks eating wordlessly;
a homeless man, plastic-container shoes,
seated and swaying imperceptibly in rhythm;
blue trash bags not yet carried off
by platform workers;
a hooded figure on a cell phone,
facing the other track,
could be anybody;
and a low, loud rumble that is
the 1-train to take me away—
inside of it an aging gentleman
telling of heart trouble
and asking for loose change;
he’s got the blues, too
over the car’s squeaks,
which continue for several minutes afterward.
At 125th street, now above ground:
towering buildings,
escalator down to Broadway.
Cold.