On the tube

United by these yellow poles. If we let go we fall.

Sallow skin, suspicious glances, the judging up and down, examining each other's shoes (cowboy, sneakers, loafers). This unites us too. Ferried beneath soil, ants on a conveyor belt (although none of us did the digging, or even wonder who did).

They wear suits. Her bag may be Louis Vuitton. Furry Ugg boots. Rising together in a line from their seats, like a class before the national anthem, or the first move of a new dance, they all change here.

We are lonely meteors. Trying not to look at each other. Silent through space.