Some stand in ridges, uneven and rubbery on the tops of our hands and behind our knees. Most are subterranean, running with life in the dark caverns dripping inside us. Content veins are red and thin. Clean subways for blood driven by well rested conductors. The air smells of clean dirt underground. Cagey trashcans hold thin trashbags. The walls are tiled in white and black and wiped clean with heavy green sponges each morning. Clear water runs off the tiles and pools on the concrete floor. A woman holds a thin silver flute to her swollen lips. Crumpled gray dollar bills and warm coins collect in the flute’s case. Crushed velvet flashes under the overhead lights.
Other veins are swollen. The veins are bruised purple and black. Trash overflows the silver cages. Hotdog wrappers and cigarette butts. Turnstiles crank. Crime is heavy. Sadness is heavier. The smell of alcohol hangs in the tunnels. Thin people rush with their overcoats blowing open. Each person is a tight purple balloon, raging against the hems of their life.