Rio Coca

Bobby Byrd is in NYC on publisher's business, and as a poet,
a writer, and elder statesman, he found time to document
his adventures in the core of the Apple. The following is
from his journal:

Rio Coca

1.
Monday around 2pm I was deep in the hubbub of New York City, leaving Times Square on the “R” Train going south. I like the "R" Train. It's not so crowded, the cars are newer. A couple of young people were smooching a couple of seats down. In her excitement the girl dropped her can of Coca-Cola, the boy tried to grab it, but he was too late. A puddle of the dark sparkling sugary stuff spilled out onto the floor. The girl giggled. The boy apologized, he picked up the can before it was completely empty but what else could he do? She snuggled her head into a comfortable place on his shoulder and hugged him around the waist so he went back to the more important business of fondling her. A black woman, old like me, hurrumphed at their activity. The train started off and the puddle began to flow, becoming a long tiny river reaching inch by inch back toward where it came from. Like it had its own intelligence, like it had something to say to me--the Tao of Coca-Cola. I watched it slither toward the end of the train. It never came to a logical or physiological conclusion. The train screeched to a halt at 34th Street and the river reversed, understanding the laws of its existence, and snaked back the other way, its integrity intact. Once more a tiny crest of the Tao flowed past my feet. The woman looked at me and pursed her lips. She too was a student of the little rivulet. Weird, huh? 23rd Street. The Coca-Cola repeated its performance, but this time half-heartedly. I suppose this is entropy. I’m always trying to figure out what that word means. Although I can feel it in my bones.The girl and boy got off at 14th to play kissy-face in Union Square. That was my wish for them. The black woman watched them go, gave me a big smile and rose majestically for her exit at the 8th Street Station. A few others came and went, but nobody stepped on the river of Coca-Cola. It would have been a foolish and unlucky act. Bad mojo. I got off on Canal Street. I had business with a Mr. Wu.

2.
Monday around 2pm
I was deep in the hubbub of New York City,
leaving Times Square on the “R” Train going south.
I like the "R" Train.
It's not so crowded, the cars are newer.
A couple of young people were smooching
a couple of seats down.
In her excitement the girl
dropped her can of Coca-Cola,
the boy tried to grab it, but he was too late.
A puddle of the dark sparkling sugary stuff
spilled out onto the floor. The girl giggled.
The boy apologized, he picked up the can
before it was completely empty
but what else could he do?
She snuggled her head into a comfortable place
on his shoulder and hugged him around the waist
so he went back to the more important business
of fondling her. A black woman, old like me,
hurrumphed at their activity.

The train started off and the puddle began to flow,
becoming a long tiny river reaching inch by inch
back toward where it came from.
Like it had its own intelligence,
like it had something to say to me--
the Tao of Coca-Cola.
I watched it slither toward the end of the train.
It never came to a logical or physiological conclusion.
The train screeched to a halt at 34th Street
and the river reversed,
understanding the laws of its existence,
and snaked back the other way, its integrity intact.
Once more a tiny crest of the Tao flowed past my feet.
The woman looked at me and pursed her lips.
She too was a student of the little rivulet.
Weird, huh?
23rd Street. The Coca-Cola repeated its performance,
but this time half-heartedly. I suppose this is entropy.
I’m always trying to figure out what that word means.
Although I can feel it in my bones.
The girl and boy got off at 14th
to play kissy-face in Union Square.
That was my wish for them.
The black woman watched them go,
gave me a big smile and rose majestically
for her exit at the 8th Street Station.
A few others came and went,
but nobody stepped on the river of Coca-Cola.
It would have been a foolish and unlucky act. Bad mojo.
I got off on Canal Street.
I had business with a Mr. Wu.

Bobby Byrd

Posed over on his site White Panties and Dead Friends

1. Bobby's prose from his journal.
2. Line breaks by Glenn Buttkus