“You don’t have to go home, but you cannot stay here.”

Everyone loves Grand Central Terminal

Well, okay, maybe not everyone but

The tripping tourists and school kids stumbling toward Vanderbilt, making their way to see the brighter sights

Brides and grooms in galley way entrances

Chandeliers in the middle of a perfectly ordinary commute? I mean, come on!

Even the suits day in and day out, though they’d never look up from their phones to admit it

Have a certain admiration for the marvel and the marble and the intricacies

But for some people, the select few,

I promise you

Grand central terminal is something even grander

Stories begin there and end there, and only some people are aware of it

Trains are always leaving and coming, coming and leaving and

what are we if never in the same place, but always searching for a seat?

There will always be someone running after something just out of reach,

But there is also always someone slowing down, catching the next train around,

looking at that clock in the center and seeing nothing but time.

I could tell you that it’s the constellations on the ceilings that get me

I’ve always been a dreamer

It would come as no surprise that my eyes widen at the sight of painted stars,

But more than that, it’s the sight of that tile;

You know the one,

The one little dirt square in that sea of green

You see, we’ve all got grime in our history

And loving something clean

Takes time

And soft hands,

People in blue with lots of patience,

and a whole lot of soap water.

I could tell you it’s the underground tunnels my uncle led me through

He let me see what was living

And breathing beneath the pacing and heaving of this city that never stops stressing or bleeding

Or maybe it was sitting on his knees at three to speak into an intercom to smiling strangers

An oversized conductor’s hat tips over eyes of towheaded kids, ticket stubble on the floors

But 20 years later, I still look at that metal creature and see something shiny and kind

Or I could tell you that

I think the food court smells like hot dogs

And I’m not even sure if that’s true

but to me it is a Yankees Mets game tied up in the bottom of the ninth

or Proud glitter glowing on faces splendid in solidarity

or Santas barely standing and slurring and slipping into each other

There’s something about it

The thing about the metro north, is that the bathrooms smell terrible

And the sinks hardly work

And if you’ve rode that train more than thrice in your life, you’ve had to learn to wait with grace

The thing about life, is that it isn’t always pretty

And sometimes it smells

And sometimes, the thing you’re waiting for simply refuses to arrive when you’re ready for it

The thing about the metro north, is that it will come eventually

And when it does

And someone asks you for your tickets, please

You can look around,

And realize that no matter where you’re headed,

No matter where you’ve come from

You’re here now

And no one is ever, ever, really riding this train alone