Haiku #182

And sometimes when I’m
On an underground platform
Like Wynyard, I think

About being in
A subway somewhere else, like
The MRT in

Bangkok and just how
Foreign that felt but how it’s
Essentially the

Same thing. I look at
The passengers and try to
Place them in stifling

Humidity and
Pools of sweat. I imagine
The city laid out

Above us, the street
Food sings and I slip through grit
In gutters of warm

Rain, while trains race and
Weave below. But in Wynyard,
The train crawls up

And vomits glacé
Cherry-eyed people onto
The platform, again.

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