It’s easy to get lost among the throngs of people spilling their squeaks and sweat onto the platform.
The hour approaches and trains.
One person laughs like her hand is made of gelatin and there are bugs inside it crawling through the veins.
Another person smears their future into the lit interior of the line.
No one dares to step on the railing.
No one asks the lines in the ridge of the tube to do more work than their paygrade suggests.
One person keeps the phone facing his finger and the finger facing the phone knows how to impress the light there gentle, like it loves to stretch its lines across the glass, as if before this moment there was nothing it knew how to do right.
As if is something the finger finds in its tip and beneath it.
Further down the platform the bodies become mute or mutinous.
Motion sends the still image into full blur.
The next train is a question that arrives without the email attachment.
The next train is all burned brakes and slick maneuvers to ease toward its center, holding all belongings still and steady.
One person looks into the mirror and sees the folding lines of their face and each mile it’s taken underground to get to that reflection.
One person smudges the future with her ear above ground, a city rumble coaxing her shoes unstable.
The sign reads itself to sleep above the waiting midday travelers.
One person waits for all the others to board and then remains in this image, never getting home or to work or the friends who’ve gathered to wish another year full of wine and deadening winter.
There’s heat in all of us when we gather.
Heat and the folding stack of what we are always afraid to enter.