The cold steel overhang,
And Im there.
Transport, transfix, transcontinental.
Mess of wires and books and pages and coffee and bags that
Underneath, cold and hard, support.
A sneeze behind, a viral transportation mechanism.
Only the tufts of hair can be seen in front.
It sways, it moves, it elopes.
Outside- an industrial jungle of cement and work and peoples brains shoved
Together. In one room.
Songs sweetly sing by. In one ear, sooth the brain, calm me down.
Make it better.
Two hours, forty-six minutes. Of sitting. Of listening.
Alone, typing, calm. Keep calm. Am I here? Am I there?
Where is here?
Good Morning, nay, good afternoon.
Sweatshirts and comfy pants and bright colors. Mixed.
Maybe I will dream about you tonight. Or you. Or you. Or no one.
The conductors crackly-sugary-syrupy voice tells you. You are here. Here is good.
Here is best.
Watch your step.
Stick my back to the seats like Velcro.
Diagonal, across, in front.
High off of the love that the drink gave to your cerebellum. Off kiltering your
A smoke- unlit,
Waiting, and pondering, The train doesn’t move yet.
Pretzls and newspapers and shoes and little tabs off of tickets scatter the floor. But they are stuck. Unlike us. We are stuck, but moving.
We are able to leave, the doors can open
And we can smile
And regain our lives
And join our friends
And smile. And we can move.
© Copyright 2016 CaroHirsch12. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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