Adam S.
Google
Beneath the bustling Lower East Side streets,
Where F and J and M and Z converge,
A labyrinth of tunnels grimly greets
The weary souls who from the stairways merge.
The tiles are cracked, the columns stained with age,
The platform reeks of something hard to name,
And transfers here require a pilgrim's rage—
No signage points you toward your rightful train.
Yet still, I love this underworld of grime,
Where buskers play their worn accordion songs,
Where Essex Market waits above to chime
With pickles, bread, and international throngs.
The ceilings drip. The rats have lost their fear.
The express train flies past without a care.
But step outside—the city's soul is here,
On Delancey, with dumplings in the air.
Three stars of five. It gets you where you're going,
Though not without some suffering and unknowing.