He leant against the subway pole with his butt cheeks. Bent over slightly, holding a tattered notepad he furiously scribbled words. He had some dints in his shaved bald head, each with a story that we have no time for now. The crowd stood on each other, leaving room around him on the packed subway, all seeing a force field we do not. I don’t think he smelt but people would look at him and think he did. Two indifferent women held the subway pole with their back turned from him. Staring into their worlds far from here.

He began to hum a tune and sing his words. The rat tat tat from his pen on his old boot, in perfect rhythm rippled out to his body. His hips moved which moved the subway pole to the passion inside him. The women’s arms moved with the rhythm yet their worlds kept them hostage. Oblivious. No one looked up at him, and he didn’t look up from his notepad, pausing to scribble some words out and write new gospel over the top.

The doors opened and everyone pooled out, leaving him alone at the last stop. He was going to ride this passion all day.

NYC is my home. Born in Sydney and raised by the sea, I love the world and any opportunity to be myself. I like saying the word puddle.

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