Tell it to the Crowd

Three steps remain when it hits
The stench of stale urine
Making mood more contrary with each
Breath drawn in through nostrils
Unaccustomed to the city

The turnstile (are they still called that?) opens
To the gathering crowd waiting behind
The yellow line
Milling, pacing, talking
Scanning other eyes that refuse to connect

Wind pushes from the dark
Electric, warm
A whisper that tells of a coming train
Screams an obvious arrival through spark and steel

Exhaling

Inhaling

It begins

Heads down

Pushing
Cutting
Nudging
Bumping
Wedging
Closing
Lurching

Pressed in now feet arms legs backpacks bags satchels duffels contact inevitable too tight

Routine
Aggravation
Doesn’t have to be

Tell it to the crowd