The entry that wanted to be a poem?

Hot and sticky, I climbed the stairs
one by one, then two by two as the suits rushed past,
bumping me with their briefcases,
our lives colliding while we trudged up the escalator,
propelled by the momentum of the City.

Surfacing long enough to get a coffee, I walked to the next station, anxious to hear the beep and the click of the opening barrier, ready to descend back into the underground. For me the destination was simply an excuse for the trip, the real goal being the time spent in transit.

I watched the other passengers, guessing at their lives, fabricating the stories of the girls with hoop earrings, and the elderly couples with matching fanny-packs, while they simultaneously fabricated a story for me. Jostling back and forth in unison to the clacking of the rails beneath us, I hoped that I passed for one of them, hoped that the me who lived inside their heads sounded like she belonged.


I used to ride the tube to pretend that I lived in London. I rode the tube to pretend I was one of the people who rode the tube, not realizing until it was too late that I was never really pretending. These days I ride the train to pretend that I'm not here. I pretend that I can get off at the next stop to change platforms and go in a different direction. I pretend that when I press the button, the doors will open to reveal a bustling station alive with possibilities.
I pretend that when I get off the train I'll be home.

Soon I will run down those familiar tunnels again,
craving the gust of warm air that will tousle my hair,
and fill my lungs with the dust that turns
my flip flop feet black,
hoping that maybe this time it will settle.