bouncing through the night after work,
the 41 line whispers
from the front not silent but low light and engine
roar and drowning out muting
of sound hide secrets.
people, peers hold books flip on fixed light, fall into
their solitary stories and I
writing that there is nothing solitary
about sitting in rooms on wheels together waiting
for the voice that tells you when. but i bet
its more than just that --
the intimacy of these identical rooms in different
combinations, we can't ever know, just guess, just
feel when at night bumps and soft bubbles of ideas
pop pull string ring bell
lose one gain another
and what would change if I pushed out those doors
too soon, too late or not at all? could you tell?
i will this time
the night is warm and I needed a bit more

~~~

its all an experiment, no matter
the cloth on seats that hold a hundred stories each
day and I only hear mine
through wires that connect my ears to my
pocket where my free pass to anywhere in this town
is about to expire.
it's okay, there's someone else waiting out there
to come in
and I don't even pull down
or indicate any such thing but I can't
ride these circles forever and we all know it.
That's why it works. 

(4/23, me)