To Astor Place I always race,

With book in hand I swaying stand,

Beneath me screeching wheels pace,

And forward clangs a makeshift band,

Countless nations from Central Station,

Clamber along to subway song,

Screaming beeps and tenor vibrations,

Accompany the ceaseless throng,

I dwell on life and latest strife,

Where I have been and worlds I’ve seen,

And am I ready for a wife,

East Village girl or NYC,

The train now slows, shuffling I go,

Up to the street with leaden feet,

Then gaze across the neon glow,

And lose myself in grey concrete.