Standing in a crowded train
Stuck in the tunnels like a meal without fiber,
The New Yorker looks up at the train’s ceiling,
Sees past it and gazes at the heavens begging
Whoever is up there to move the train and
Smite the demons running the MTA.
Their eyes water and burn,
The scent of crust, must, and disgust of the
Large onion of a man squished against them.
Their ears have gone sound blind
(Like a nose, is that even a thing?)
Turning their music up any louder is a futile act
Seeing as how the annoying-ass middle schoolers
Wanna argue about Fortnite and Lil Pump at the top of their lungs.
The train moves, prayers are answered,
Faith is restored, or newly-found.
The train reaches it’s stop and it empties out
Like a big bloated man on Pepto-Bismol.
