BART to Berkeley

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Riding the BART to Berkeley for the experience of it, enrapt by the heavenly haw of the train, cloying inebriation. The low tenor, rubber squeals near Oakland are horrendous, almost painful, and I'd plug my ears except for the futility of it - something I think the locals understand since they stare blankly ahead through it all, unmoved and unmoving. The incorporeal soprano consumes me, vibrates my head, scrambles my thoughts. It's ecstatic, histamine glory, a hot shower release. I swear to God, it's a magic sound. 

I walked the wide avenue in Berkeley wide eyed, like a freshman on campus, dodged into a book store, and searched through the comic books. There was an old man in a chair clutching a large book, nodding, asleep. No one seemed to mind. I perused for a bit and finally settled an a trio of Wonder Woman comics and a book of nursery rhymes, black and white checkered, 'The Real Mother Goose', which I used to read out of it as a child. I loved the way those rhymes turn a phrase, and still do. Sometimes, it seems my whole adult life is one nostalgia trip.

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