F Train, Rush Hour

The headlines to yesterday's newspaper run across three seats, although she occupies only one. Her cheeks are two isolated swathes of bright coral. A pair of swollen feet rest on newspaper padding while printed current events flop complementary to the train. Her bony upper vertebrae curve in a line from the bursting plastic bag at her toes to her pointed nose. Occasionally she peers to looming commuters, huddled in five layers of black jackets, coveting a dust of fine white powder.

T'aint What You Do

The base thrums patterns into your abandoned punch cup as you ease into coupled swaying. Dancers bounce to an unlikely mix of musicians who drip jazz into the already humid air. Peering from up a flight of stairs each spin blooms into the wooden floor.Up another flight and a many window lit sky blows the occasional breeze under your foot taps.

This is where I slip into dreamy dancing and hope to never awake. I'm obsessed with the music, the dresses and endorphin fueled smiles. The more I dance, the more it infiltrates my thoughts. I tap into a mirror in my living room, the carpet rolled up behind me. I dance until my breath is heavy and my palette dry.

I swing three nights a week, sometimes more. With each great dance another trouble shimmies into tinny recordings of eras past.