Hindi na umulan ngayong gabi, pero
basa pa ang kalsada.
Sa loob ng bus na sinasakyan,
tuyo ang aking puso
at umuulan ng luha.

//

It no longer rained tonight, but
the road is still wet.
Inside the bus I'm on,
my heart is dry
and it is raining tears.

A ******* the train with witch's hair and dark eyes
Stared at me as if I was hiding a secret in the curve of my lip
Or the space between my eyebrows
Or in whirlpool-pupils
I wonder if there is something of the occult in the way I walk
Like a dead woman who adores the crows that pick at her bone marrow
Is there something in the hollows of my eyes that suggests
I am not afraid of the demons summoned to hunt me down
On my morning commute?

Debris alongside the highway
Bother me
Here are littered items
Treasures discarded at 50 miles per hour
Memories left
behind of travels
And worse
Yet we pass by
Eager to get home
Ignorantly blissful
Of what could be ours

Faces in a row wait to begin the daily shunt.
Sat aboard we bow our heads to handheld binary,
ignoring the large TV on adjacent walls.
Their broadcast, another repeat of moving scenery.

We sit with thumb in repetition; we know yesterday's story.
But the curiosity of which we serve fails to resist;
the craving for a pictorial record of a faux friend’s breakfast.

Lonely subjects completely surrounded by people.
Yet we hide – validating ourselves as socialites by algorithms of technology.
We sit, hoping to avoid a mundane clone of yesterday,
but facilitate it with various levels of hope for a change of train and different journey.

We’d know the grass isn’t greener on the other train’s TV,
if we looked up to see it.
Appreciate today’s episode, supply a faint smile to another, chat without a digit,
we may yet remedy our hope.

Forty seats,
Occupied by 40 different personalities.
The destination,
For now,
Is same.
Just passing the time:
Gazing out of the window,
Talking to a stranger,
Engrossed in mobile phones,
Taking a nap.
Or writing,
*Like me.

I
looked on at a
yellow sky,
creamy meringue;
peppered with
feathers and wings,
the lemonade stage
for the black bird dancing.

Crisp November winds and
overheated toes,
I lost my head in the
music on the
dimly lit road.

moving between stations
with newfound aesthetic in every window
strangers take seats and lock themselves
in their headphones

tickets are checked in the mundane gloom
of Mondays
beautiful faces stare into the seats before them
exposing their gaze as hushed uncertainty
silent in the prospect of arrival

when overhead lights flicker
darkness is delayed by illuminating smartphones
providing soft-spoken information
of news headlines and Snapchat stories

hands slightly quiver as Penn Station
takes collective precedence
cups of slightly cold coffee
rise with unflinching confidence

pages of poetic conscience
lower their standards
and admit they've overstayed
their welcome
taking shelter in backpacks

strangers disperse into confinements
of populated territory
their energy birthed in the helpless framework
of time clenching its withered fist

5:32am
walk three avenues if you don't catch the M116 bus
6 train
1 stop
transfer
4 train
3 stops
10 minute walk
deli stop
1 small tea + 1 everything bagel w butter
1 block
"good morning" to the security guards
she won't make eye contact but she'll smile so let that be something
4 flights of stairs
12 of us
in an office for over 6o hours a week
holding each other accountable
holding each other close

Line suspended.
Train decanted.
Commuters frustrated.
Work belated.
London isn't working.

Open the doors and purge
The stream of bleary people
A flood, pressing for escape
The eternal escape
And fighting the belated urge
To run