NY-Squeeze-C

Public has everything to do with it.

Seats searching for air away from warmth.

Doors binging and buzzing,

beggars begging and Kanye blaring

Squeeze me between hair-flipping Hailey

and Ms. “Girl, I told you”

Body heat elevating

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.

May I have your attention, please?”

No, you may not.

Reeks of teenage love,

stomach-swirling stenches

and screaming sweat from the forearms of men in yellow hats.

Lights twitch,

stops stop,

strangers enter,

coffee spills.

Stuck in a continuous cycle.

Words on my pages keep shaking,

no way of reading them.

V’s become w’s, while y wraps its leg around t.

And we, once swift ballroom dancers, are now thrashing head bangers.

Closed doors open to clusters of

pathway blockers, artists, fighters,

baggage carriers, snarky businessmen, all kinds of women,

and stroller steerers with weeping babies in them.

There’s no escape from here.

Conductor, take me home.