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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, looking for some sign of life.
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.

Peering out the window, 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.