So little room on the platform,
it’s dystopian.
Can’t decipher whether
my fellow commuter, intent on his tablet,
is a proficient first-person shooter,
if I’m his equal.
Is there any measure more biblical
than a stone’s throw?
Underground,
what sunlight there is is refused us.
I’ve mixed feelings pointing out the obvious.
Either you understand my ambivalence
or you do not.
In the kingdom of conspiracies
anyone of us could be a theorist.
On the surface
fruit rots in horn-shaped bowls.
Mirror man, our hair’s turning silver,
last chance to exchange looks.
You first.
