Chatham Station: A Tunnel

 
It's every morning, I said
over breakfast, tossed and turned.
Platform littered with humanity
dragging by suitcases, briefcases,
head cases. You're one of them,
you know, nose upturned and
fork mid-dredge in eggs,
yolk runny like soaking sunlight,
I told myself. I was right.
Morning,
six-seventeen
bound for
wherever.
Heard horns,
saw but
couldn't reach
a blue hand
out to her.
Wanted to
spring up,
but glue
held strong.
Settled for the words' consolation,
theme park ride for those
who couldn't get off their surface,
dance to love. Stuck rigid instead.
Wanted to dive, roll down cylinders
after her, broad portals held open to
bring me somewhere new.
Sighed and threw a line to fish
for something bright, the lustrous way off.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Eagles, New York Minute