Accompaniment to the following poem:

A Train

We stood there in our own zipped coats,
but shared a frozen city.

Some of us hungover,
most of us still breathing.

We smelled of cigars,
and music,
and long nights,
and war,
and standing alone in the rain,
and not-summer,
and people.

We marched the way a city marched,
deathless and streaming.

That morning we found ourselves waiting for the A Train,
frustrated in our winter jackets and the heat of the subway tunnels,
but in the moment Jazz started to play.

A clarinetist.
A drummer.
A guitarist.
And the tiled walls
bounced music,
rang down the tunnels like mantra,
like city sized organ pipes,
lungs.

And for a moment we weren't frustrated waiting for the A Train.
For a moment we weren’t in the subway tunnels,
but in central park, snowing and touching loves cheek,
looking love in the eyes,
in a place where commutes don’t exist.

A sappy love poem.
A drive by.
A watch waiting face up on a rainy day in front of a restaurant. 
A story.
An un-lullaby. 
A happening.
A train roared through the middle of the station,
and we awoke in our frustrated coats.

We forgot what we were smiling about
and boarded the train
on the commute to geographically
home.

Ben Vock