A man strums his banjo within the subway tunnel. He’s short but only because he sits, and his stomach protrudes like a Buddha of sorts. His jaw seems cut from stone, but his features are soft and grandfatherly. Upon his head sits a hat that is red and made of wool. His cheeks are red and flushed from the cool of the air. The tunnel is not quite cold but the trains bring a draft from all points of the city. With his fingers he plucks a familiar happy tune, but he sighs and cries and shakes and moans.
When a policeman gets angry and chases me,
then I just think of my favorite things.
He begins to whistle – a haunting sound that echoes along the corridor, much like it would within the depths of a cathedral.
Teenagers laugh when one of them sings,
these are a few of my favorite things.
A passing businessman tosses a coin in his lap. A small girl precariously balances her drunken boyfriend on her frail shoulder. Another drunkard plops himself into a bench seat. “Play it again!” he yells.
Snow that is falling and stays on my nose,
these are a few of my favorite things.
“A round of applause for the train folks.” He shuts his eyes and a smile breaks across his lips. The train comes.
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