These are the things I see on the train, and type in my phone. Part 2 (2013)

Know when I feel safest in my city? 430am. The bums are all asleep, and easily avoidable among the empty train cars. The drunks have since stumbled home around closing time a half hour ago; the puddles left behind are the only tell they were recently in my streets. Like twisted trails of bread crumbs, a piss streak here, a Jameson or seven, round two, over there. The only MTA worker besides my conductor (who's running 4 minutes behind already, clearly setting everyone's pace for the day) is sitting in my car. He's a far safer beacon than any beat cop; overworked underpaid and mind on his next cup of coffee.
The train hums. It's the same hum morning noon and night, only now it's the corroborative symphony to my low headphones, with no scuffle of Wallstreet shoes, no squelching children, no slang attitude-laden Spanish from one underpaid to another. This is my safe space.
The street laid out ahead of me is glistening but it hasn't rained. The street cleaner is two Aves away. The downtown drunks have made a clean escape by my arrival.
The runners are stretching, lacing up the trainers, gobbling a protein bar, all in the comfort of their studios. No one sweatily pushes past me. No one exhales down my neck like I'm the tourist blocking their self righteous cityscape trek. No one heckles my outfit. I am in all black, doing my best impression of a shadow against the avenues within the dawn. No one blesses me, wishing me a "good day, mami." No one begs for change, they've all found refuge in the air conditioned train cars at this god awful hour. The breeze is the coldest it will be all day; it carried a distinct smell of gasoline, warm trash, and yesterday's bacon egg and cheese being scraped and burned off the food cart grills, their massive percolators a welcome buzz among the patchy traffic.

The first person I care to speak to is already pouring my coffee: large, yes; vanilla cream, yes; no sugar, I'm 'already too sweet.' The perfect morning conversation.  The only man that doesn't make my skin crawl when he compliments me. I do, after all, pay him for his conversation skills and dark roast.