The gallery rolls slowly down the rail.
The artwork all my senses will assail.
For Casey Jones and Rembrandt intertwine
on boxcars that traverse the Northern Line.
The bulbous letters bloated with the hues
of spray can colors seemingly confuse
the timid minds that dare to comprehend
the messages the artists strive to send.
She gathers speed, her travel northern bound.
The very earth will tremble with her sound,
that hissing shriek as steel kisses steel
clad in her cloak of colors, vast, surreal.
Some would proclaim it is a heinous crime
to decorate the common in sublime
but could a train find means to then reply
she might suggest the colors beautify.
The taggers from their towns may never stray,
imprisoned by existence but today
a part of them has severed chains that bind
and left their prison village far behind.
The names and monikers upon her flanks
give homage to and offer up their thanks
to that great deity called Wanderlust
and tithe their heart song’s tribute, bold and just.
When e’er I hear that distant whistle blow
I thrill to see that roaming artist’s show,
a train adorned with color, quaintly gowned
with names that travel ever northern bound.