I hear New York sleeping, on the way home from school,
The snores of senior citizens, each abruptly stopping,
as the train skids to a stop
The teachers shifting to the beat of the tracks as they dream of grades and deadlines ,
The doctor briefly resting his eyes after a chaotic night shift at the


hospital,
The lawyer leaning forward and hunched, with his


head on top of his briefcase,
The construction worker with eyes closed and hat beating against the train doors


as he stands,
The homeless man’s snore, the businessman’s sigh on his way to the office,


or lunch or dinner with his family,
The peaceful sighing of an infant in its carriage, or the working mom,


or of the student, with eyes closing involuntarily as he tries to stay awake
Each dreaming of what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the neighbors


overworked, exhausted, yet always friendly,
Sleeping with open mouths each in their own dream.