This stocky yellow cab comes to a halt
at the base of this concrete cage,
eight staggering stories high and a Metra train wide,
as my ears carry me inside,
enticed by vibrant echoes of noise and light.
Ten thousand sardines packed in a magnificently lit
tin can decorated with speakers for giants,
held by chords no thinner than a human neck
and lights flashing colors too explosive to recognize,
leaving pulsating blind spots in their wake.
The vibrations boom into my face,
a bass so deep it screams
and vision turns bleak,
struggling to focus
on the diamond studded star on stage.
For two long hours,
the speakers yell and spit
nonsensical shit that drowns ears,
pouring sweat, screaming for more,
shoulder floundering over slippery shoulder,
voices intertwine
like infinitely entangled vines
overlapping and conjoining
more noise, more lights,
and then the beat subsides
and we, like sheep, slip out
under the moon.
And outside,
where the air is cool
and the stars shine,
a million sequenced lights
as the streets,
they guide me down into the catacombs of the subway,
a seemingly concrete déjà vu of hours past.
Down here,
the smell of charred tobacco and menthol
caress me as sounds of saxophones
play for spare change
in hopes of a change
that the above, estranged world may spare.
Kids, men, and teens inbetween
dance to beats
made of laughs and splashes
of smiles while they turn a blind eye
to skin tones and styles.
And I feel my feet,
tapping as I wait for my ride,
my toes dancing, head bobbing
to this music that surrounds me.
