The early morning sun creeps between clouds and casts flickering light on the streets below, the city crawling out of bed to face the day. Rain from last night's storm clings to puddles not yet evaporated, fighting to dampen shoes and turn graduation money sundresses into soggy rugs with each passing car. The aroma of wet pavement rises to the nostrils of commuters standing on the platform staring blankly down the tracks for the tell-tale sign of work: the bright headlights of an oncoming train car. A suave businessman stands on the street corner in a well-cut suit and slicked brown hair, chatting away on his cellphone and hailing a cab simultaneously. The driver peels away from the curb, momentarily distracting the iPhone-addicted teenagers from their social media updates with screeching tires and a rattling engine with too much wear and not enough motor oil. Before the odor of burnt rubber can dissipate and be lost amongst the stench of hot trash and the piss of vagrants, the familiar sound of metal grinding on metal echoes down the street. The train slows as it approaches its stop, ringing the bell to warn those waiting to step back from the platform.
Property of Liam Feldstein, 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment