Subway rides are so anonymous.
Unspeaking last riders
left sitting uncomfortably close
by the recently departed.
Somewhere up above
normal people celebrate
in a glamorous city's
Friday night air.
While down below
you and I ride the tubes
making jerking starts and stops
in the municipal bowels.
We're not normal or glamorous.
We're too urgently needy to celebrate.
So much in common, yet we haven't
shared as much as a glance.
In the light of the stations, you're glued
to your seat by pale illumination.
But in the speeding flickering darkness
I see you unbutton to reveal your true self.
Pressed khakis settle to the floor.
Your naked rear settles on molded plastic.
My hands come to rest on your spread thighs.
And I nod in submission to desperately pray.
And the warmth of my mouth apparently
gives you some measure of comfort.