Adhesion

The 4 train is stalled at Union Square.

The woman next to me is checking her watch

every thirty seconds, her jaw tight.

I step back and feel the floor grab back.

It’s a long, stubborn pull of pink sugar,

anchored to the grime of the platform

and the tread of my boot.

A bridge of chemical strawberry

stretching thinner until it snaps,

leaving a tacky residue I'll carry all day.

For a second, I hope the train never comes,

so I can just stand here and be stuck to something.