A Streetcar Named 34

We climb the stairs of No. 34
oblivious to the incongruity
of a Celtic tune
played by a progeny of the first man.

As the car lurches through the entrail tunnels,
we teeter on our forced pole dance.

In a sea of striated human color,
our bubble air is clogged
with the cacophonous, constructive interference
of music leaking from trendy nanos and obsolete walkmans,
each person an island unto oneself.

Yet, once the silence barrier is broken,
strangers chat with false intimacy;
the steetcar is an uneasy democratizer.

A furtive school-boy "steps down" and out the doors,
his secret lost in the crowd.
A fragile beauty wrapped in browns and blues
is demolished by the unkind word of a fellow passenger.

Cipher graffiti taunt us with their secret code
as we emerge into light and wait,
wait patiently, to signal for our stop.