On My Way Home

On My Way Home

by a commuter 

It is six thirty eight p.m.
the rush hour of the rushed people in a rushing city 

The MTR is filled with mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters 

and some are alone 

Many sit upon their hard-earned seats, claimed by their hastened steps 

More stand, like me, leaning against the rails or doors or walls 

One eye on the screen, another on possible may-be-empty seat 

The thighs are sore and feet are drenched in fatigue 

Five more stations. 

Here I lean against the walls in between carts 

My phone barely hanging on with an external battery 

It too, has seen the weariness of Tuesdays

A tab, “Yoga class for beginners”

Another, “The Eolian Harp by Samuel Taylor Coleridge”

A notification, someone said omg 

My day is drawing itself to its conclusion. 

I see bouquets of flowers, delicate, frail, in the arms of a lover

given by another 

a treacherous mutual fondness 

I wonder where will the roses be 

in a day, a week, a year 

Vase, trash, dirt 

Thousands of money hard-earned

back to the dust of earth 

something perhaps would remain in the lovers 

the memory of a once-surprising emblem of love

only today! Valentine’s Day! 

And they leave just now, on they go to the platform

A nice dinner for two, I assume 

Three more stations. 

I like to stare at faces 

hoping they would not stare back through the glass above seats 

heads bowed to their phones, heads dropped for a quick nap

All lives are the same

All lives are different 

I wonder if they are heading home for dinner

or now just going to work, a beginning of another toilsome day 

day and night 

night has befallen upon our rushing city

calling the people to rush 

rushed are the people whose home lies somewhere this MTR will take them

One more station. 

I take my octopus card out again 

A friend is waiting at Starbucks

Movie for two single people in the midst of a sea of couples

Please don’t make out in the theatre. 

“End of the West Rail line…”

I’m almost home. 


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