My Favourite Part of Toronto is the Subway

As the grey train dashes into Royal York,
the TTC man waves.
I step over the yellow lego platform edge
as the tinted windows clasp together.

The missed-the-train man waves.
I slump on my red velvet throne,
as tinted windows clasp together,
breathing in second-hand hemp,

while my throne’s
threading unknots my back.
I breathe in second-hand hemp.
The speckled floor’s like rural midnight,

carpeted threading unknots my back,
Sapiens slithers out my bag.
The speckled floor’s like rural midnight,
car gets more crowded by Runnymede:

sapiens slither by my bag
squeaking from their slushed Timberlands.
We get above-ground by Keele:
sun highlights my book,

squeaks from their slushed Timberlands,
lady mumbling on the speaker.
Sun-yellow pen highlights my book;
tunnel visioned reading.

Lady mumbles on the speaker
“Nowww arriving at Spahd tate, Spadina Station?”
I’m tunnel visioned on reading
even while wiggling through the crowd.

“Now ar..ing at St…George?, St.Gor..tion.”
My eyes taste the mint-green bricks
even between the crowd
going upstairs. I stare at the time.

Eyes taste the mint-green bricks.
The commuters and I huddle
upstairs, staring to
predict where the train’s ruffled walls’ll stop.

The commuters and I shift inside
and the doors ding like a heartbeat monitor.
Where next will the train’s ruffled walls stop?
Hunched, I grip the yellow horseshoe

and the doors ding like a heartbeat monitor —
I love how Museum looks like a museum.
Hunched, I grip the yellow horseshoe,
attempting to squint between people’s headspace.