Transit Authority #012

The elevated train, roaring on the elevated track in the air mildly rarified,
the boxy cars three cuboids each, full of individuals in personal cubicles,
wide riders on either side of a seat-edge glider,
the cars bookended front and back with cubbies private enough for pissing,
for filling back up on hooch and beer,
oblong enough for precious bicycles and full slouches with beaten shoes in the gangway,
everyone alone but looking,

no higher density of stolen glances in the city,

innocuous and thoughtful and I wonder if anyone wants to go where they're going in

biznis cajh,

edging between hip and professional, same game same train same time tomorrow same pain,
gutted and drained back in the abattoir, huskin’ it and hauling the carcass back to the farm,
back to the kitchen where between the cold fridge and hot stove we get that

meat blown back onto our bones

for the harvest, tomorrow's sharp-edge punch card claiming the first cut,
hewing and hemming but to get there we gotta slap that transit card on the turnstile,

and again for my friend,
that they too on the morrow can leave a little marrow on the charnel house floor,

clock in clock in baby, don't let that transit card expire,

and ride quiet and alone because we can be deeply thankful without a broadcast, without a celebration
just flying these banner ads with their word salad tossed by the design teams with fiberglass brand propaganda caught in my eyes and hair, on my fingertips and lips

for later, forever,

conjuring pocketbook twinges, greasy sock and bra dollars in the boxcar,
humping it in and curling out into the homes and gardens we, for whatever reason, leave by sunrise.