Crowded train cars packed by stalky, careless conductors
Foul-odored mist hovers over the melding of all those bodies
Hands groping for those they think they desire
but mostly unsure; what is privacy to them anyway?
With no respect, hands search for her
She is itemized, sexualized, victimized
attraction becomes a part of the public routine.
Picked out randomly, an anonymous pleasure
The sways and halts make for a tempting ride
She says nothing and continues to look at her foggy phone
No eye contact with those hands of the perverted, humble
fisherman, businessman, accountant, chef – does it matter?
On TV, this encounter could lead to an amorous rendezvous,
but why doesn’t she feel these hands the way they feel her?