I get to and from work by CTA each day. That means the train, or the ‘EL’ here in Chicago. It’s called the ‘EL’ as an abbreviation for ‘elevated,’ even though it seems like most of my time on it is spent underground. In those subterranean moments, weird things happen. One time a man got on board with a city-owned trash bin and announced that everyone else should mind their own business. Another time, a guy sang the Battle Hymn of the Republic followed by Iggy Azalea’s ‘Fancy.’ Very few people ever strike up conversation with me, but sometimes it happens.

Today, a 58-year old gentleman pointed out the enormous spools of wire that were beside the tracks for construction. I know he was 58 years old because he told me so. He said he had to cover every inch of his skin or else he’d be cold, not like when he was younger. He also asked if I would have guessed he was 58, to which I replied, “They say black don’t crack.” I laughed, but he didn’t…

Also, here is a haiku describing part of my voyage back from work today. I cross from the red line to the blue, where a tunnel that looks like Harry Potter’s chamber of secrets got a 1960s upgrade, links the two underground:

Transfer at Jackson

Big ol’ knife in the trash can…

But, hey, free concerts