
The train pulls toward the station and you stand, claiming your place in the line of the first to exit
The train empties like a torn serpent, its entrails pouring from a series of wounds
The flood of people starts as a trickle and becomes a rush as they jockey for a forward position
Free of the train, walking fast, moving with a single thought of gaining the doors to escape the bowels of the station
But really we’re just late for work
The lady in front of you walks with a cane, and she’s hobbling fast, as if she’s being chased
And she is
You try to pass her, and like cars on a freeway, so does everyone else
And as the flow of the train’s entrails empties onto the platform, the wriggling mass spreads outward and forward like blood toward a drain
And we fight for position until we are slowed and blocked and then we groan and complain about the lateness of the hour
The congestion of the sliding doors is an equalizer, putting you back in sync with those who lined up early
And in our mad rush or a deliberate wait, we all exit the station at the same time, spreading out into the city like fire
Breathing finally and texting our superiors and subordinates as if this is something rare and altogether strange
To wake tomorrow and do it all again