Smith-9th and the Light Comes In

The F train leaving 7th Avenue at a quarter to eight is a neighborhood car before it becomes a city car. Park Slope boards in layers: a nurse in scrubs gripping the pole with two fingers, chalk still faint on her sleeve from someone else's morning routine; a man with no kid in tow, thumbs buried in his pockets, moving a little lighter and a little heavier at the same time. A retiree with a folded newspaper. A half-eaten bagel wrapped in wax paper on the seat beside a tote bag that's been to a dinner party and hasn't quite recovered.

This song lives in the two minutes of above-ground light between 4th Ave–9th St and the plunge into the tunnel at Smith-9th Street. The R160 cars on the F have older orange and yellow seats that carry the impression of ten thousand commutes without comment. In the mornings, before Smith-9th, the windows run long and the light comes in at an angle — one particular slant that belongs only to this stretch of Brooklyn, only at this hour. The song is about that slant. About the window you're still looking out of before the dark comes and takes it.

Three verses, a chorus that doesn't overstay itself, and an outro that does the only honest thing: names the two stations and lets the train go under.

[Verse 1] Seven forty-seven, seventh avenue A woman in scrubs holds the pole with two fingers Somebody's kid's still chalked on her sleeve She doesn't look up from the window

The bagel's half-gone, the tote bag's got wine From last night, or maybe the night before that A retiree folds his paper into quarters Like this city still fits in his hands

[Chorus] And the light comes in at Smith-9th Street Before the dark, before the dark One long window full of morning Before the dark swallows the park

[Verse 2] A father without his kid walks lighter and heavier Thumbs in his pockets, no place to rest Someone hums something nobody answers The car rocks and doesn't insist

The orange seats remember ten thousand commutes Hold them gently, say nothing And the names in the scratched window glass Are illegible but they meant something

[Chorus] And the light comes in at Smith-9th Street Before the dark, before the dark One long window full of morning Before the dark swallows the park

[Verse 3] Past Carroll, past Bergen, the tunnel gets close But not yet — the sky's still negotiable A nurse from the night shift is leaning and almost Already dreaming of home

The city will take what the city will take But right now we're still above ground And something is held in the slant of the light Something that doesn't make a sound

[Outro] Smith-9th to Carroll — one last look At the borough before we go under