⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem VI
The tram started
with a sharp, metallic screech –
not a protest,
just the sound of a hinge
that had stopped pretending to be young.
The overhead lights flickered,
not thoughtfully,
just blinking the way tired workers blink
when the shift has gone on too long.
The smell of damp wool rose
like a shift we were all still carrying.
Inside,
the passengers sat
like a row of kitchen chairs
moved out into the rain.
Bags slumped on knees
like heavy, unfinished thoughts;
shoes stayed damp
without complaining.
Everyone moved
on the same thin, end‑of‑day hum,
nobody looking at anyone,
nobody performing
the courtesy of a greeting.
The tram didn’t offer a lecture.
It didn’t provide a scenic route.
It just rattled forward,
tracking a line
it had no interest in changing.
When the brakes caught sharply,
no one gasped.
No one checked the street.
The entire aisle leaned forward at once –
one clumsy, collective shoulder
shifting under the weight
of the jolt.
We straightened our coats.
We adjusted our bags.
Nothing needed to be said.
The doors slid open
with a tired, mechanical sigh
and let the half‑light in.