Castle Frank to Broadview

The train ride home:
the shuffle of strangers
toward bare feet on
cool hardwood planks
and the hope that the
front door will open
on the first try cause
we can't wait to
wash this city
right out of our hair
before facing yet
another get-your-own
dinner night and
maybe a few beers
--at least a few.

We want so little,
and these days
it means so much.

The train is too
slow; it drags on,
screeching too much
at too many stations
and we can't stop wishing
it would just fucking
get there--wherever
that is for whomever
wants it most--already.

But our silent lists of
demands are dropped and
we all turn up our faces

when, for a second,
the train breaks
out of the tunnel,
onto the bridge,

and you'd think it'd be dark by now,
but it isn't.