Poetry in Loco Motion

by Raul Chuletas

WE sardine ourselves into tubes to stand
there in the daily smell. We hang onto
this ergonomic misfire made worse
by individual manifest destinies.

A teen's face glum, vacant as a rap star's,
wearing a clown's balloonous pants, has no
space at home so he bullies for it here,
slumping, splays his long legs to claim three seats.

Bulging pregnant lady looks tired, searches.
Who will rise for her? As if getting knocked
up was an accomplishment worthy of
the coveted gray or orange plastic.
No dice, chubby.

Delay. Delay. Delay. Delay. Delay.
Finally we emerge just in time to
make it late — cattle-prodding each other —
rushing to our own private Auschwitzes.
Have a nice friggin' day!

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