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photo by MacGregor Rucker

COMMUTING

The waiting eyes, 
The vacant stares, 
The feet that pace and rest,
Become alive at eight-oh-nine, 
Fold their papers, ask the time,
Move down the platform in a line, 
As the eight-oh-one pulls in.

The air-brakes hiss, 
The metal wails, 
The train stops with a sigh.
And so another day's begun: 
The programmed bodies move as one,
Board the train and sit benumbed,
Or peer through smudged, green windows.

As for me I 
Search their faces, 
Seeking signs of life.
But what I seek I do not find,
The fault however may be mine,
I think; perhaps, that I've grown blind
From too much introspection.

A hiss, the smell
Of ozone, and 
A lurch, and we begin
As plastic smells and smoke combine, 
I feel detached, displaced in time,
Hurtling on without design 
Down steel rails worn bright with use.

I Peer out the 
Window, and 
I think about a friend.
I mourn his loss and feel resigned. 
Did I commute his death to mine?
I strain to see beyond the grime 
Of scratched, green-tinted plastic.

Through granite rock-cuts,
Barren trees, 
Beneath a steel gray sky,
The world's grown dim and monochrome. 
Amidst this crowd, I am alone.
I feel that I have turned to stone,
Devoid of all emotion.

I strain to see 
Beyond the grime 
Of scratched, green-tinted windows,
I read the name of every station, 
Watch them pass in desperation
Till I reach my destination, 
Then, alone, I disembark.

The cigarette butts, 
and coffee cups; 
A paper bag, and I:
Kinetic cast-offs, unaware, 
Move down the platform toward the stair;
Motivated by the air 
That rushes in the wake of things.