Morning Commute

There’s no point in listening

Through the static and the chatter;

The garbled announcements are utterly useless.

No matter,

I know where I’m going,

Seven stops down the line.

It’s the same each day.

I score a piece of highly-coveted real estate,

A seat,

Well, part of one anyway.

Ear buds in, book open.

Others stare blankly at their phones,

Feigning intense interest in something, anything,

Just to avoid looking at anyone.

No eye contact,

That’s the rule; but be ever watchful.

Hundreds, thousands of insular, solitary islands,

All sharing a rolling sea,

We’re intent on remaining separate,

But somehow,

The truth is undeniably palpable.

Though separate, we’re all united,

Tiny pieces of something so much larger than ourselves.

Something important,

Vital, even, in some inexplicable way,

As the underground city begins to hum,

Bringing life to the world above.