They Came in Scent

by Steven Visintainer

A reflection on the New York City subways - 1990s.

And outside, as a child, above the grate, the steam would rise,

and my grandmother would say there were devils down there.

And years after, they came in scent

of electric smoke,

from high voltage burn

that changed my childhood imaginings

of someone in red

to the now-dead musk of blue spark

and current arcs

that traveled from moving train,

that swayed with long, thin

pricking screaks in tunnels,

to the lighted cavern of colly platforms,

recognized by their indented steel pillars

of rivets rusted,

emblemed with location,

where we gathered in faces

in the absence of names

for a ride on steel,

to reach work or home.

And that scent.

It fed off creosote- soaked railroad ties

fucking steel dust

with lubricating oils

wearing on wheels

that spit its dust

on white enamel tile

that bore street numbers or names in glitz.

Crowing and pissing in drivel on the pretty laid work -

the rats hounding litter its tell.

Dribble and trickle of water.

Stagnant,

sludge stale,

grease pungence,

an invisible wall of humidity.

It attempted to invite with its warmth

and some offered their liaison

of urine on floors and trash in corners

and in between track work

amid scheduled intervals of clangoring metal.

Static growing light afar in tunnel,

as necks would crane

to see the approaching distance of the next train.

Its headlights two flames in a subway dark.

Soon reaching now.

Its silver stock thundered by

blowing wind -

a respite from the stench

before screeching of brakes.

The cattle exiting.

The cattle entering.

And a new rumble forth to the next station

and its return of baleful breath.