Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Morning Rush

Air gusting.
Wind whistles up the concrete steps of the Essex Street Station, alerting commuters to the approaching train.
Pace quickening.
Feet scamper faster down the narrow, congested passageway, nipping at the heels of dawdlers ahead.
Cards swiping.
Turnstiles halt momentum, blocking progression forward to the converging masses.
Metal spinning.
Bodies bound toward the tracks like coils springing out of a clockpunk creation.
Bells chiming.
Arms reach out to wedge open sliding steel slabs for one last straggling straphanger.
Doors shutting.
Shapes slump back onto the yellow, rubber platform edge, hands rest on jutted hips in frustration.
Train vanishing.
Curses spew like venom shot out at fading red taillights disappearing into an abyss of serpentine catacombs.
Watch flashing 8:46 a.m.


1 comment:

rege schilken said...

Sounds like rush hour here in Pittsburgh. I guess rush houris pretty much the same wherever you go.

Nice poem.

rege schilken