The Lot Of The Lot

In the forest a river shows
From what it comes
And to what it goes —
I don’t know

Crowds surge
On the platform, sitting, waiting
Announcements — train stops
Bells ding, doors open

Dawn to dusk
Every hour
Hundreds
Thousands more
Step in —
Securely transported
To show up as hollow shells

Thudding, droning
Speeding train
Past countless rails —
Imprinting shapes
Noises
On fleeting air
Or is it water —

In the station
Train slowing
Halts
Chimes —
Doors open
Shuffling, stepping —
Crowds
Step in
And out

I am
In the swarm
Depleted by the weight
Of invisible chains

In an office with over 300 others —
A little better or worse —
Dreading every Monday
Counting to Friday
Worn, numbed, resigned
Years, decades on one desk
To settle debts

For families
For week’s escape each year
Ailing bodies, crushed spirits
Awaiting pension
Or death — whichever arrives first

Grudgingly departing
Every morning
In assigned uniforms
To blend in

Stripping to recover
Every evening —

In muted misery
Stitching life’s edges
Together
Keeping the cogs
Turning

And who ever hasn’t
Known despair
Who cares if it is
Less often or constant

If this is the lot of the lot —
Then that’s how it is
What’s worse —
Who knows

The river still shows
From what it comes
And to what it goes
I still don’t