Crammed into a tight space,
 strangers desperately avoiding eye contact. 
 Those who sit, sit anxiously, 
 waiting for their turn to move through, 
 the sardine packed people who stand 
 in their way to freedom. 
 The fish glare at the sitting with envious eyes, 
 jealous of the relief on their knees.
 With a seat taken by a bag,
 no one mentions anything 
 but mutters and sighs flit through the masses.
 Nothing changes. 
 

 Taunts from teenagers at the back 
 waft their way forward on the smell of lynx.
 Choking to all but 
 little men, 
 who grease their hair and shorten their ties.
 The shorter the tie, the more dominant they stand, 
 parading masks of big dicks and big game 
 whilst the truth is 
 they’re all the same. 
 

 Cackling girls take in the show.
 Their whispers no quieter than a fog horn, 
 but they're oblivious to those outside their world. 
 In contrast to the witches,
 there’s a few who sit quietly, 
 desperate not to draw attention to themselves. 
 The groups sit so close but revolve around different suns
 Worlds apart, same uniform. 
 

 Elders look down upon the tall masses 
 who are giants in their presence, 
 yet they hold more space.
 Whether deserving or not, 
 capable or not,
 is never questioned.
 You disrespect them and you disrespect history.
 “I wish it was the old days” type of people, 
 “This generation is so lazy” type of people,
 “Back in my day” type of people.
 A disconnect between the young and old,
 obvious on this journey. 
 Whilst the young follow, 
 their minds do not. 
 The elders have fog. 
 The young have suns. 
 Yet there is wisdom and lessons still to be learned. 

Squeeze through the chaos. 
Leaving the mini ecosystem behind,
Only to be greeted by masses upon masses,
sweeping you away down the street,
giving only a second to say thank you,
knowing, 
it’ll be the same tomorrow