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.