The air is hot, dry and Lysol thick,But nobody takes off their coat.train cars wobble, screech and lurch,their floors pockmarked.Dreams of a new landhardened into wads of blackened gum.A man sleeps,his head bobbing against a metal polewhile a woman draws staccato lines into her expressionless brow.Faces down,Phones whispering, “This is for all you NYC badasses!”

People poured out to protest not only what Trump has done—and what they fear he will do next.