Take notes. I rode my bike to work. The last time I had taken the subway, three young men got on, and all three carried a gun quite openly. They sat down across from me. I’m quick. And was able to escape through the closing door. I bought a bike. I was working with blind children which means poverty. The subway was literally two feet away from my apartment’s window. The subway was loud and the building shook. I could sit in my living room, and watch all the thousands of faces, especially the folks who waved. Hi. I’m home. I did not need TV. I had a clown outfit that was supposed to be a joke (clowns are evil). I would put on the whole nine yards. And sit on my couch that faced the window. I had my clown suit on (you can’t move well in those shoes), and was blowing up quite colorful balloons. I would wave and pop balloons with a pin when the trains went by. Suddenly, I had an audience. Never give me an audience. Now, there were sporadic faces pressed up against train windows. One kid popped his own balloon when the subway would stop. He made faces, and I would make faces back. Weekends, I sold poetry on the train. Does anyone love poetry. Does anyone love poetry. My poetry books were all stapled together. Who is going to say: I hate poetry. No one. People shoved dollar bills in my face. I assume none of this is legal, right. I’m a poetry criminal. The subway was my ATM. I never rode it again to work. But when I do ride it, I am always looking for guns.