another poem, again.

The days stack up on top of each other, like
Commuters pushed further, further
Inward on the train.

Doors open, the days come in and do not leave.
You've readjusted your position,
So you have a squidge of space to breathe.

But just then, another day, another set of
sliding doors
Letting people on to squish against your
Chest.

Well.
You inhale through someone else's scarf.
And think--The only thing to do is sit down on the
Shoes of strangers
And write another poem,
Even if it's late.