The subway is my dance floor
the way the light reflects off its metal walls,
like a disco ball.
I listen to the gritos and tambores through my headphones.
con las voces of Celia Cruz and Willie Colon, shake my soul,
the vibrations travel down to my feet where I begin to dance,
The flashing lights that pass the cart are like the lights in Bushwick clubs.
tourists and anyone that lives uptown off of the 6 near Lenox Hill thinks I’m crazy,
but if you take the 7 towards flushing- main st.
They know the rhythm in my steps.
They know the way that I can’t help, but to dance.
If you get off at Court Square you’ll hear loud speakers below you blare
the classicos your papi used to play.
You’ll see a woman like your abuelita sell fresh fruit from her little cart below the mezzanine.
The way the trumpets and cowbell take control of your body,
even the bell warning that the door’s closing fits with the tune.
You harmonize with the man playing perreo off his speaker as you transfer at Myrtle.
un verano en Nueva York,
it gets hot, but it’s nothing that our blood can’t handle.