(Written en route from Toronto to Montreal)
So, what’s going on?
I thought spring had sprung.
The snow surprised,
Stroking (scuffing?) my smarter shoes.
Stumbling on, bleary-eyed.
Sleep-deprived. Stayed up late
Scrambling to ready my journey.
Silly, I know.
Scaling the steps onto the streetcar.
Snow multiples commuter crush.
Must stand, squished behind white line.
I swivel awkwardly, seek to align my suitcase and satchel,
Make space for squashed, suffering souls.
Arm stretched high, sheltering strangers,
Set free from the squash,
Now sucked down to subway.
Commuters stand, skimming the news.
Says Metro (free paper):
Prepare for spring poll.
So here and near, governments fall,
Not simply in sandy lands afar,
Screams safe behind the screen.
At station, seek awakening coffee.
Second Cup suffices,
But scalds hands as I scurry to departure.
Not enough hands.
And so, in transit,
Earth shakes, waters surge, commuters shuffle
Awkwardly. Not enough hands.
These ends at hand;
Our ends in our hands?