They emerge, the people, from the mists

Shadows skulking in the pre-dawn half-light

Creeping through the crisp fresh air 

Chasing the bright, cold lights of the train station.

They come, the trains, behemoths of marvel

Swaying on the steel track

Heralded by the ding of the announcement

The strange voice of a not-man

These are not that circling train that loops the city

These are the ones that go under

A new thing that wasn’t there before

The subway has become

They open, the doors, sliding pieces of metal and rubber

Click and hiss and ding

They slip fluidly closed again

The endless cycle of the commute

I sit swaying with the movement of the car

And as we pull into my stop I awake