Penn Station

She misused her subway map, crinkling
the crisp folds to form unrecognizable gutters and
side alleys. Flashlight in hand, she
scoured these new-found boroughs
for aliens and gullible scapegoats.

Train cars pulsed above,
below, and all around,
stalkers on the 7:57 Express.

Parroting overheard threads
of Communist propaganda, she
searched for myths in between
Murray Hill and Broadway,
eleven and a half stops before
Penn Station, in the rain.

She decided that without
crisp, clean, scientific fact,
her long-dead manuscript could only
be revived by the pilfered
fountain pen that had
obliterated her twelfth stop.