Theres something to be said about riding the train through the Bronx on a January day.
On the Hudson line, you see old factories and pockets of aqua. Geese and ducks keep warm in the water. The bridges and buildings look frail as if the ice hanging upon them will crack the entire structures.
Yankee stadium is a monument. Its house is empty. Even Ruth’s ghost is on holiday.
You see light snow upon the land. It looks like foot powder left on a locker room floor.
Across the way, is Inwood Park. A few months ago, a fire raged, but from the Bronx side of the Harlem River you can barely tell. The leaves are all gone from the trees and the expanse near the Hudson draw your eye.
At Spuyten Duyvil, the waters are so calm you start to think the Dutch explorers must’ve had a sense of humor in naming that place.
The rock cliffs across the river create a barrier to any sore sights Jersey would provide to a New Yorker’s eye.
A walkway hangs over the tracks and ends abruptly like a high school diving board. It’s rusted, broken, and tagged by graffiti. You feel you need a tetanus shot just by looking at its sharp, forgotten edges.
North, the train goes. At Riverdale, you’re given one last chance to stay in da Borough. You stutter. Get up from your seat. Van Cortlandt Park is a close taxi trip, you think. There’s a carrot cake shop there that could be good to try. The Wave Hill Garden would be a nice visit, Best to come back in July.
It’s January. It’s cold. And the doors have already closed.
You stay on the train. You always stay on the train. The Bronx is just a pass-through for most riders on the Hudson line, on their way to Ludlow, Tarrytown, Poughkeepsie, or New York’s countryside.
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