Ode to the Distant Tracks at Grand Central Terminal

by Barrett

As a Metro North commuter to Manhattan, I’ve found certain tracks take more time to walk to than others on my way back to Connecticut. When rushing to catch your ride, you never want that faraway gate. Here’s a poem that tells my story.

Stairway to Tracks 23 and 24

The track to take, you just don’t know.
Your walk is fast. There is no time.
To find your train and claim your seat.
Or lose your spot. Then stand and whine.

The odds get worse if train is Red.
The track it’s on can seal your fate.
Easy to reach or Outer Rim?
This is how you will miss your date.

Upper level gates no hurry.
But basement level spans further.
It’s like moving through Tatooine.
You’ll have to sprint. Feels like murder.

Teens and twenties, easy to reach.
But beware twenty three and four.
You think you’re there. Then more to go.
Two more staircases? Now you roar!

Then there’s eleven on the end.
It feels like you are lost backstage.
Garbage bags and metal shards stacked.
Now you’re walking through the bronze age.

Red transports I take up the coast.
So don’t know what other droids feel.
But where are the good tracks for me?
The trek can feel a bit unreal.

Sure, here I complain and kvetch.
What‘s wrong with a few more minutes?
If that’s a pain, the fault is more.
A track shouldn’t test one’s limits.

Still, it would be nice if we shared.
The good tracks and the naughty ones.
A rotation to split the fun.
And then we would all move our buns.

I expect there is some logic.
For how these Vulcan pods are stashed.
Could change come from just one poem?
Perhaps my high hopes won’t get dashed.

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