Liquid light sloshes
beneath our still train,
stopped between stations in
a blue line delay.
The city, in all its glass
and concrete glory,
looms just across the luster
we’re impatiently
hanging over.
The surging urge
to pry apart these
silver doors sealed like
a confessional letter’s
envelope.
The need to know
if cold, candescent currents can
shock my drowsing soul
and wake that something more
this place has lulled.
But before
I can rise from my
cushioned seat, our train
jolts and rushes towards the
glass and concrete-
interminably in motion.
pm poetry 