Gusts of air. Turbulent waves,
hot and steam filled, rush like running thieves
up the subway stairs, circling her hair,
teasing the ends of morning care.
Her gum snaps like frenzied whips,
keeping time with stories she shares.
Turnstiles twist like fallen windmills
releasing the aroma of rust and useless oils;
a fine baptism of dust settles on everyone.
The subway crawls to a rusty stop.
Crowds of anxious shoulders angle for space;
the doors close in anger.
Hands and heads sway under great motion;
Eyes stare up, absent of prayers.
Roger Singer 