For Jose.

Each morning, a silver Godbeam
Zooms across its metal-lined path:
Fourteen thousand laborers crammed
Inside its sleek, geometric form.

Each morning, a glass box of hum-drum bees
Buzz in various states of dishevelment:
Dull, diminished, indifferent to any
Flow of feelings, of forthcomingness.

Each morning, a rush of industry.
Track streaks, harsh sparkles, morning light trickling through the interstices:
Lusterless subway glitter, maring the puffy eyes,
The calloused hands, the tailored suits, the untailored khakis.

Each morning, a phantom fog horn.
A sounding bell ringing in the aftermath of its endless echo
Through the canals of every ear,
Swallowed by the cavernous clamor.

Some semblance of a universal truce
Marks these walls. A code of conduct:
You go where you need to go
And so will I (knock on wood).

There have been traitors:
The acrobats, the jilted lovers lashing back.
The hardened, ashy palms stretched out
To be filled, to be felt.

And yet, this pod of mundanity,
Rising from the labyrinth
Into the morning glare,
Over a bulky bridge.

The soundless roar of every heart
Pulsating through our skulls
Clustered in the embryonic plush
Of each subway car

As we sit in silence, in thought,
In headphone heaven, in angst.
All draped in the vast,
If insufficient, blanket of the American flag.

We ride. Still as an indecisive coin.
(Heads or tails, who can know?)
Our toes curling as migraines ripple through our brains
Our coffee failing to do its dirty work.

We wait, as we answer to an unspoken roll call—

Dreamer… Here.
Lover… Here.
Tired… Here.
Hungry… Here.

Foolish… Here.
Worker… Here.
Student… Here.
Angered… Here.

Settled… Here.
Open… Here.
Hopeful… Here.
Hopeless… Here.

Broken… Broken…
Broken… Broken…