Naked branches passing by,
Dark trunks shivering from still night air
And against a pale sky made darker still.
A horde of stiff straight trees
Covering white houses
All in a row – like eggs in a carton
Or milk in a store surrounded by ads
For better this or that.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
People all in rows in train cars like
Cattle to who knows where.
Burberry next to Prada next to some generic
Brand – of jeans, and shaved heads with piercings
Next to three piece suits,
And one fashion debonair.
Traveling through parks of trailers
Next to heaps
Of scraps.
Traveling to work.
Everyone is off to work
At Wall Street or Wal-Mart
Or a street mart or maybe
Not to work at all –
But all at 6 a.m.
Passing under bridges
As the sky grows bluer still.
Red, yellow, blue graffiti
Art. Names immortalized in aerosol:
“Pacer,” “Moose,” and
“Jesus Christ” – to name a few
Names or brands or gangs
That no one ever washes off
The bridges and backsides of buildings
That nobody sees from the road.
No one owns this rail or this Corridor
So does everyone – and so does NJT.
On the inside people read the Times
Or people or even the Economist,
All motionless reflections in my window
As we pass New Brunswick
Train speeds up again –
This is the express.
More cartons aligned through barren trees,
Crooked trees in Edison – and parking lots
Barren, barely sunlit lots.
No first class seating on the line,
No business class. No coach.
Only businessmen or women.
No smoking.
Keep feet off the seats.
Orange globe poking through
Our crooked trees.
Sunlight wraps around their branches
Everyone is off to work
Or somewhere else.
Passing under bridges
A billboard tells us:
“Something New”
A cemetery on the right
before Metuchen’s stop.
More empty lots and roadways
But now the car is full
Of cologned men and perfumed women
Between other aromas most wish to ignore.
The man to the right moves his paper up,
Stock reports protect him from the sun
Now poking through the window
No longer hidden behind trees.
Warehouse backsides and clouds in the sky:
Exhaust from NJ industry that lines
The line that (all these people) take to work
Or home, or both at once.
Now our line cuts next to parks and
Baseball diamonds and fronts of houses
Still in rows.
In an instant no more houses;
Only fields of spires of smog
And bridges – one atop another.
The City’s skyline in the distance now;
Underneath a rising sun.
Next stop Newark Penn.
More backsides of warehouses
But slowing down to watch us pass.
Or we are slowing down –
Traffic jam at 6:24
While the roads are still asleep.
Sitting in silence in the Corridor
Not caring to converse to those
In that seat next to us.
Next stop New York Penn
