The # 2 Train.

I wrote this poem during a train ride to class, my freshman year in college... So its an old poem. Everyone loves it to this day though... Anyway, since I've retired it (won't be reciting it during open mic shows anymore) I've decided to post it for those of you who get all nostalgic and feel urged to read it on your own....Enjoy!

He's beautiful. Expression hardened by Brooklyn's madness. A streak of sadness and anger dwell on the corners of his full lips.
Its his demanor that stirs me. He sits so close to me on the #2 train, but its plain to see that he's somewhwere else. Somewhere far.
Not really on his way to a destination unknown to me, but probably completely gone already.
A fitted cap covers his hair and its decorated with the letters N and Y and I'm wondering why I lie to myself like I ain't salivatin' everytime I coincidentally catch his eye, why I can't get up the nerve to ask him his name, on this train, underground, I found this young man who appears to be... Everything I never knew I always wanted.
Well I want him now. I want him like kids want candy, Like a beach is sandy, like a baby wants milk.
I want to lay him on sheets of silk and touch his heart and suck his lips and rub his skin and put him out and in and out and in and out and in and out and in and then... Well then I want to switch positions and do it again.
I want to know how he got that small scar on his chin; but I don't want it to go away cause he's perfect in his imperfection.
Viewer discretion would like have to be advised cause I'd place him between my thighs and ride him 'till his knees get weak and he can't speak.
He'd be as speechless as I am, sitting across from him at this very moment.
The way his jeans sag seem to be coreographed in rhythm with his untied Timbs and scarred and bruised limbs that have been kissed by the streets. Consequently he's tough, like Brooklyn.
Lookin like the urban warrior he is; this boy is gorgeous. Presence is enormous, yet common enough to be overlooked.
A fish on his line, I remain hooked to the way his sideburns blend with his goatee, placed so perfectly on his brown skin, can't tell where his begins but I'm sure I don't want it to end.
I want to thank his daddy for not pullin out, cause his fine ass takes the words right out of my mouth.
I wish I had the courage to seize this moment. Own it. Control it and contort it into a true fantasy; instead of just this wistfull wish that he'd acknowledge me.
He's sitting right accross from me. I'm in his view but he's blind to me.
Unaware that he only need say the word and I'd crawl there on knees that were bare.
He's ruggedly soft with sensations of truth. He's a man and a youth. He's fly, hot , hood, fresh, a beast, hell at least a 9 on a scale of 1 to 10.
He's the end to a long day that has yet to begin.
He's salty sweat spilled from a hard day's work.
He's love poetry's core epitome.
He's....he's ...
He's getting off at the next stop...and he didn't even notice me.