Blue heavens are always open
above clouds. Far below voices linger,
busily hurrying with little thought
of arriving.
A flat wax, misty day quiets the travelers
holding handles and scratched
metal poles, attempting to remain upright
as the subway attacks their gravity.
Trench coats and book bags sway as
cars tunnel noisily through a labyrinth
of darkness.
A portion of the city is underground for
morning. Weaving in transit. Arriving in
the hustle. Escaping to the surface.
Roger Singer 