Fragments And Reflections

The Church of Commute

We sit silently‎, like acolytes at

Prayer, composing incantations in

Our heads for the day that lies before us.

We are still, absorbed in our thoughts, wary

Of each other, of unknown agents who

Might just disrupt the serenity with

Bursts of jangling, tinny beats or one side

Of a lover's tiff beamed through the ether.

Who are we who take our places daily?

Scions of the City elders mainly,

Some secretaries and lawyers, no doubt,

And those with vaguer purpose, too, but not

The cleaners and security guards long

Since started on their shifts, fuelled by tea

And toast made from cheap loaves, thickly buttered,

Without the salmon that will grace some plates.

And the low, red sun of winter morning

Offers up a warning, how each such day

Might be our last, how each member of this

Congregation of little worlds, with their

Private hopes and fears, desires and regrets,

With their debts and secret affairs, and their

Hanker for a gentler, kinder bearing,

Could simply cease to be, lifted from the

Narratives of many others' stories,

To become a parable of sadness

And testimony to dreams unfulfilled.

Would they mourn? Would this ecumenical

Crowd shed a tear for the empty seat or

Merely look on with expectation, a

Moment's curiosity expended

As a ‎new vessel takes their place and smiles?

January 2016