PICKPOCKET A DREAM (a draft)
It easily slides out of the pocket into my hands and I slip away.
Maybe the pocket of that person hanging onto a subway strap, eyes meeting his own in his reflection in the train window, tunnel lights flashing by, stroboscopic. Or the three others crowded together near the pole by the door. All I know is the pocket I reached for, as if to move people aside so I could pass through, the pocket my prey.
So what do I have as the bunched few shove to exit through the train door as it stops, a rush of air from the subway station, its sounds now more apparent in my thoughts, invading my curiosity for what I garnered. Stole. New passengers take their place. Which one of those who left did I pickpocket? Does it matter? I’ll imagine it the man looking at his reflection.
The train lurches and I spin and face an elderly woman older than me, face lined, standing because no one would offer her a seat, then another lurch, a bump, and I almost knock her down. I grab the bar with one hand, her arm with the other, and she is stabilized but glaring. I shrug as if to say, what do you expect, it’s the subway, this is the city. Don’t let go, she seems to ask with her eyes. I nod my head toward an empty seat. Another man taps her back. Take the seat, he says. He escorts her. I watch and smile feebly. The man ignores me. The woman leaves the train at the next station and smiles at me. The man leaves, too.
Stations go by and the train is almost empty. I exit. I’m parked along the river. I need a drink and pass a neighborhood bar. Go in? No. Cross the river to head back north. Why did I park here? A whim. I went to the art museum, got bored, left, walked through midtown, thought about a movie, no not that either - my treasure in my pocket as I think about this. It feels like something folded, hard, cardboard. I can’t look. It will ruin the surprise. There will be no disappointment. I imagine I’m stealing a dream. I’ll make of it what I want.
(To be continued …)
© 2013 Wes Rehberg
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