Most patrons of the westbound Metro are trapped,
imprisoned, in their own bubble of music.
The angel and demon on their shoulders have grown bored,
replaced by two slugs whispering in their ears with plastic slime.
If I could listen to those shrill voices singing inloud,
stick my head in the bubble, what would I learn?
An Armani thug? Chopin on his way to work?
What if I were to pop the bubbles?
Let them hear
the subway.
The baby’s cough.

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