The Poetry Society

many a time i've sat on trains

(or more often than not, stood)

and watched, heavy-lidded, rings swing in synchronised motion.

in that fine grey liquorice

i briefly wondered if a man's head could fit

chin first

then slowly easing everything else in

feeling familiar plastic nooses.

i fancied, slack-faced: strung carrion.

they'd follow cold poles

embracing every track's nuance

with all the lifelessness they could muster

but then i'd jerk back into sensation and forget these strange wisps

because stranger names, tiong bahru and buona vista

would replace them.

please stand behind the yellow line

doors closing -

this is mass rapid transit for you.