we smoke defeated in the trainstation under
grand concourse and
plot our next move
reduce movements
clutch our bags
reorient
breathe
cars slash water onto the walkway
women tie their hair up and
straighten their work clothes
men pace like failed hunters
commuters collect
around puddles puzzling
the brave wear their fuck-it proud
and plunge into the curtains of current
and the train
lets more
off and
the mire of commuting life
softly collecting behind
curtains of rainwater like
muttering phantoms projected from
their corporeal employment to
reunite in 13 hours
to sleepwalking skins that
will have lost or renewed
this condensation
it's days of this and
we numbly conjure strength for
more days of this
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