1913issue6online

148 There are trains in my head, running their habitual routes. Charging fares, taking tickets, belonging to the street and the men in uniform. The trains in my head run on gray days you’d hate to go out, they’re not taking their time The people are looking at their watches—reading the Tribune—humming a song they heard on the radio—they are boarding and de-‐boarding. Some of them have cameras and take pictures of the trains both as they arrive and as they pull away The train in my head is always something rare and special, something of utter utility. In this, its gleaming paint— that dead voice. The train comes and doesn’t come again for awhile. The BART doesn’t feel like a train, it glides and does not make the squeaks of the New York City subway, doesn’t laugh or cry like a train— has the silence of moving capital.

1913issue6online

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