Poetry: Morning Train - ode to commuters

The train trudges through the morning fog
squealing its impatience at the waiting crowd,
humming as it hustles them on board
with a promise of standing-room only.

Commuters packed in; mute shadows
swaying to the beat of the tracks,
convicted and sentenced to life and hard labour.
Trying to crack the weekly six-digit code;
the elusive get-out-of-jail-free ticket.

Daydreamers yanked to reality.
No beaches or palm trees for them,
just last night’s drunken mistakes
shrilled into a plastic phone…
within spitting distance.

There’s nowhere to hide.

Blurred, anguished faces outside-
ephemeral reminders of another station
ignored, blown off,
the train whistling its contempt,
‘F*** you, you’re too late.
The train to mortgage-belt hell is full!’