I Don't Get It
On dealing with stunned grief.
I was awaiting the subway into Manhattan on a growingly humid early summer’s day. Eager and antsy to see the steel steed charge through the station, sweep past the growing queue of waiting bodies and wrap my hair into a quaff atop my head.
“This is a Manhattan bound F train, the next stop is….”
It’s an automatic voice I’ve heard a plenty. One that is so c…