Soiled air runs through
my soiled jacket.
The breaches are the reminders
of the use, the misuse,
and the thin fingers wrapping my platform 3 body.
I shiver, I stand, I cross the yellow line
I enter the train with the polite man, the burned man,
the rushing woman, the marching teenagers,
the woman dragging her rollerbag across the soiled tiles.
The window worlds roll past slowly then quickly.
I go deafnumb from the blur and the white noise.
Streak lights cut the dark across the whole screen
two spots, my eyes focus.
Two spots become one greasy head stain;
the John Hancock of the nameless
erased in the morning by Windex and a soiled rag.