Platform Number Three
Colors, I see colors and textures around me.
The scent of the hot wires and every spark
that tames the perpetual falling and forever
running metro. There are people, all sorts of people,
eagerly waiting, clearly losing their patience and
people, standing so still in their own melancholy
of mind. The odor, oh, the odor mixed with the
array of perfumes. People chattering, some loud,
some discreet. Those glooming, little eyes. Waiting
to see the choo choo and hopping on it. Them
running around the station as if no one is watching.
The rush and chaos, the horn of the metro brings.
The pulling, pushing, rubbing of the passengers to
get in this one train. Finally inside, searching for
the empty seats for there are none. Even when
standing, the odor follows. People peeking into
your phones and overhearing your conversations.
The chaos subsides, as the horn goes again,
signaling the departing of the train. The platform
No. 3, standing there, still, lifeless, waiting for the
next set of passengers, to feel again what it's been
feeling for all these years, not murmuring,
never murmuring.
Copyright © Manya Saxena | Year Posted 2021
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