The Life and Times of a Subterranean
Clusters of humans gather behind the yellow line
headphones pushed into ears,
tunnel-vision engaged with phone screens—
together but silent.
A frail, Asian immigrant man
is looking through the crowd.
He drags a dry bow
across the strings of his violin.
Screeching, still romantic.
A leaky pipe dripping overhead adds soft percussion,
contributing another drop to a small pool
collecting in a dank corner.
Rounding a corner,
the train lights shine in the tunnel.
Humans scurry down escalator stairs;
space between bodies behind the yellow line
begins to shrink.
Books and newspapers do the trick.
steadying;they blaze straight ahead
staring the crowd in the face.
A wall of wind comes on like a gust;
the procession of cars cling, whistle on their rails.
As the train rolls to a stop,
the humming, buzzing crowd swells behind the yellow line,
pushing, slinking in front of one another.
The doors slide open.
In a matter of seconds, the cars are populated.
The doors slide closed in orchestration
and the train blazes forward.