The streetcars come and go,
Unbound by time,
Rolling with a will of their own,
Arriving only when they please.
The conductor is merely a piece of the machine—
Like the tracks, the brakes, the doors,
An anonymous pulse in the city’s flow.

Doors hiss open, bodies spill out,
Others flood in, filling the narrow aisle.
Some lucky, seated—
The rest, swaying, clinging to metal poles,
Suspended between stops.

Each rider locked in their own world,
Eyes averted, hands clutching bags or phones,
Ears drowned in playlists of morning commutes.
We are, for now, silent travelers,
Bound together by a single, fleeting purpose:
Destination.


— Sincerely Boris