Heading To Chicago On a Commuter Train

They are looking out tiny boxes traveling toward the city from the suburbs wearing tennis shoes on their tired feet Many have left their dress shoes at work Some stop at a gym on the way, these are the high brows who do not punch in It is Chicago, nineteen ninety-six My husband is in one of these jam trains looking out his tiny box, as trees and cows fly by Upon arrival, the gritty of the city meets them Gray concrete is their first welcome mat They are careful to not fall into the trenches Some race by, but most march as robots staying in order until they reach Union Station People stop being human here The stores are expensive, so most cannot shop Their lunch sandwiches are tucked into hot baggies inside the briefcase they hold onto as they march a line of unsmiling creatures who have left their mommy and daddy cap forty miles out being an employee or an employer, less than human now