Rush Hour Poem by Charles Morgan

An early morning Metro clears
a concrete platform and
hundreds of commuters focus
against the incredible scream

of metal on metal. Now speeding
like a laser; through underworld
alleys these everyday people are
the machine. As we traffic

beneath ground in a genuine
dash to office, or home, or to
somewhere else: (like sheep
to pasture, or chattel to

slaughter) our separate yet
equal and yet unequal destinations
bring us up and down and back and
forth and in the earth.