Throngs

Mornings open not the shutters of your eyelids.
Rushed rides, not happy, says a psychologist,
who probably took the mean of countries’ statistics
to make this statement. So, explain the lethargy
of eyelids, how they gaze at train throngs
like a movie one harbors no wish of watching.

You sneak sleep on the Reserved seat, pray
the old man lumbering on board is staunch enough
to refuse the seat you will not offer. Eyes
glued to phones require no permission to steal
glances at yours. How that woman wafts her
scent of cherries. This man’s crotch planted at
eye-level negates your smile at her smell of cherries.

That fiver-year old needs a lesson on balancing.
Once more this book of poems fail to intrigue
your hands. The young girl beside dips her
head toward your shoulder. A glad support – except
that you are not her boyfriend, so withdraw the
unwitting cushion of your shoulder. Besides this

seat, what else serves as the day’s logwood
over a sea of commitments? Train doors aren’t
ghost doors till they open at your station: get
down, get out, take the people-thronged path to
an office that holds no sympathies with your wish
for five-minute coffee before flipping on the laptop.