Stranger Still

She's the enemy to whom I've yet to be Formally introduced -- Her sites set on my Tennis bracelet or clutch... She glowers. There's something off about her hair It's color strange and unreasonable. She dons a skirt too short And tight for one her age -- My age. Her colors loud and far too bold For this town. She stares me down like I would flinch, As though intimidating me would be an Easy job. Here's what we can't tell: She's a child of the Bronx. A survivor. It will take much more than Undivided attention To cause cowering. Don't force it. She despises on principle Though of which one I'm uncertain... Probably doesn't like that We are of the same stage in life Relatively And unusually surrounded on This subway By a majority who happen To be of approximately The same range, age-wise. Not the usual youth of Beantown Who seem to own this city (Or think they do) Transplants from other locales Here for educations Or jobs, or beer, Or whatever opportunities come their way To seize upon and take from us. Why are we not on the same side? These rides serve no Purpose other than Perhaps to bear witness to still lives And words set upon portable devices -- Commutes and communions Of little consequence Other than the fact that Moving through space and time Reminds us that we're still Alive.