Pink cultured marble tiles. Swirled in white with spots. Footprints on the walls, thickly covered with ordinary grime found in ordinary train stations. Fingers on the windows, the dripping dew stuck on a collision course with the handles. Heavy jackets and tennis shoes---scarves, long pants, and shivers. Yesterday's rain left puddling under the creeping fog. The trash needs to be emptied, at least a few days ago. The slow, necessary draw of a frigid Monday morning pulls the pawns slowly across the board, while the kings and queens sit idly by. Impatient paces crowd the platform, yearning for heat on the ice-cold stage. Tall, stylish boots arrive, faces wrapped with care to battle the elements. Workforce warriors. Tickets in hand, breathing in, breathing out, counting each step along the way.
On the train, crumpled newspapers, abused by many eyes drift from seat to seat. Blurry images fade into moments past behind the frost as the citizens catch a few extra minutes of sleep before beginning. Dry yellow paint and core board flood the walls of the small room temporarily shared by the now-patient, and contently warm huddled masses. Green, poorly designed standard fabric chairs fill the car with an absence of essence. The train begins to slow, but the sleeping eyes do not open. The books begin to close, but the eyes remain moving.
Looking out the window of the train--dripping down the line. Passing lights and clicking sounds disturb the tranquility I find behind the stained glass. Worn, market-bought shoes with broken laces mingle with rich relatives--suits, dreadlocks, coats, beanies, book bags, and Chanel purses convening in accord with the must of everyday life. Poorly kept floors reveal the intentions of uninterested hands--blistered by sweat, poverty, and low pay. Acquaintances feign interest as familiar yet wholly unknown faces pass them by as they wait. There lies no distinction between a hard day's work and a hard day's shopping amongst the commuting herd. Stars hiding in the glow of fluorescent beams somehow manage to survive as voices, loud and soft, boil the sticky air yet leave nothing in their wake. Conversations conducted in cowardice lie pressed against the panes, straddling the precipice. A dank perfume of sweat and dust plagues the crowded rows. Fictitious friction draws eyes to one another and back again as the long, slow wave begins to roll once again.