girls in Halloween costumes suffer seats sticking to their pale, bare thighs.
a Phillies triumph means rich celebration and long trolley delays.
i hold my breath while passing cemeteries. she notices and smiles.
stuck underground is the greatest possible place for karaoke.
an old woman’s eye wrinkles curl up, deep. she’s done a lot of smiling.
a man falls asleep in the seat next to me. i squeeze out around him.
severe delays, stuck underground. SEPTA’s slogan is: “we’re getting there.”
"hold on to the rail or you’ll fall,” mom says. kid won’t. barked now: “i said HOLD!”
"people think just ‘cuz i’m pregnant i want to hear about kids,” she whines.
driver shuts his doors and pulls off. man with a cane stares in disbelief.
she goes through her bagfor a token, shifting her lapdog to find one.
at night, the driverannounces routes no one takes, to fill the silence.
he stares down at his arthritic hands, trying toopen and close them.
a small girl smiles atan oncomer who does notlook back. her face falls.
her arm covers atrash bag of clothes - for shame orsafety, i’m not sure.
Hello there, small-but-dedicated cadre of haiku readers,
I’ve had some personal emergencies recently so I’ve been (A) distracted, and (B) taking cabs more often than I’ve been riding public transit. I will back-update soon though!
old friends recognizeeach other. there is a long hug that warms the car.
a little boy holdsa fistful of Halloweenpencils, grinning wide.
so still - you can’t tell she breathes, except for the tears rolling down her cheeks.
her hoop earrings are so big, i picture loopingthem around her head.
she runs to the stopbut just misses the train. hereyes start to tear up.
"there’s a difference," heexplains, “between ‘home’ and ‘myapartment’ - you know?”
he is covered inpaint and oil. the air around him is heavier.
a woman says, “no.” her daughter pouts and says, “i want a new mommy.”
a young guy offers his seat to an old man. he refuses, standing tall.
pushy oncomers command a 12-year-old girl to sit in mom’s lap.
the trolley passes the stop. she scowls, goes after it, yelling, “fuck you!”
he sits next to her. she stealthily moves her bag to her other side.
"i agree, we should totally do that,” he says. “but here’s why we can’t.”
a man sleeps through six stops, then wakes with a start and flies out at his own.
a large, hulking man holds his baby. even his sausage fingers are gentle.
she boards the packed car with helium balloons that bop me in the face.