Ode to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority Subway, bus, or train, surely the way to heaven is run by the MTA. Accursed network of rails and snarls, spaghetti yards and sidetracks, cold crowded platforms and broken air conditioning, who else connects New Haven to Mott Haven, Murray Hill, Manhattan, to Murray Hill, Queens, Atlantic to Zerega, and every place in between? We courted in high school, tied the knot at graduation, ever together til death, or a transfer. We count our days by the paychecks, the predawn breakfasts shared on deadline, the nightcaps home with our Playbills in pockets. Like any marriage, we’ve had rough times: blizzards, strikes, fare hikes, yes, a mugging or two, missed connections that changed my life, damn you: lost a job, met a bad love, missed a plane. Yet I chase after you like a schmuck, and my heart still skips a beat when you come round the bend.
—Submitted on 09/26/2022
Bruce E. Whitacre is the author of The Elk in the Glade: The World of Pioneer and Painter Jennie Hicks (Crown Rock Media, 2022). His poems have appeared in American Journal of Poetry, Big City Lit, RFD, and other journals and anthologies. He holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from NYU Tisch School of the Arts. He is a native of Nebraska and lives in Forest Hills, Queens with his husband.
Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered publication.