Hung from the arm on the 7:45 train home,
Being careful not to brush the lady beside me even if her hair smells like lavender in the spring.  

Using what's left of my conscious for balance, stagnate excel script drained my will so surely as if I owed it back.

Romanticising the daily is about as close as I'll get to a break. Without rosie words and teller-folk I'm sure the 7:45's headlights wouldn't see me.