Where's the T?

Where’s the T?

The arrivals sign is a tease–

first ten, then nineteen,

and now thirty-three minutes

until the next train;

may as well be an eternity.

Even if it arrives empty

(no chance of that)

some among our esteemed

company won’t fit.

Try teaching patience

on this teeming platform.

Enmity begins to

precipitate amongst the fog-steeped

committee of commuters,

teeth grinding out tenths of a second,

their faces wet either with

dew or frustrated tears.

A steely-eyed graffiti writer

throws up a tag

Remember the 15?

on tempered glass while

two teens mug tough against

the team of office workers

trying covertly to

ratify a treaty that

guarantees themselves

a teeny space to stand

on the mysteriously delayed train.

If none of them

have the temerity

to steal a seat from

that dainty ninety year old

plenty won’t volunteer to

stay behind in her steed.

Though it’s a tolerant city (on TV)

civility is a pretty steep ask

Tuesday morning

at Twentieth and Third.