Old Sister

The leather strap of my Home-Line's knapsack, stitched in yellow thread, cut off the circulation in my left wrist, rubbing the skin when the train jolted along the freestanding tracks. I wanted to go home, but the Seven halted by Rawson; the metal cars cooled down. A women fell asleep on my shoulder; she smelled of garlic potatoes. The train pushed forward. That rough momentum kicked the subway cars, and someone coughed.

I wished for Citi Field to appear, showing me empty seats and a plain brick surface that only opened in one corner for a green diamond field and future loose home runs. The cars shook, and a white guy tripped; his crotch slapped a woman's face. She looked disgruntled, but he looked pleased. The train moved passed 74th street Broadway.

A corner of Shea was visible in the window framed car door near 111th street. When I was a kid, I sat in the bleeder seats next to my dad, chubby ball park lovers, and happy cracker- jack-kids who couldn't afford to sit any closer to the field, but who would want to sit any closer when the Mets lost to the Phillies? I was worried about birds dropping bombs from above. I folded my arms around the cotton candy, looking every which way in the sky when line drives were hit, bases stolen, and the crowd roared--I missed those eventful moments with dad.

Citi Field sat next to its dismantled sister, an old sister. The seven pulled away, heading into main street, closer to him. I could smell the cotton candy.