The tube

I stand amongst these well groomed men and women.

Auburn wax jacket, like mud and scorched grass. 
Bright teal shirt, the morning sky, when the sun shines too bright in cloudless nowhere.

Suppressive heat, the sort that presses against you, pushes your clothes tight and your eyelids tighter. 

I stand amongst these well groomed men or women in this fallow light.

All their hair like plastic perfection,
All their shoes like patent leather luxury,
All their phones like illumination of their intricately plucked and polished persons. 

Empty paper coffee cup fills my left hand pocket. 
Peter piper picks a peck of paper coffee cup and puts it in his pocket.
Paper cup pocket.
Paper pick pocket.
Pick a peck of paper pocket cup Peter.

The next station is bank.

Sweat tracks a trickle along the middle of my back.  

I stand amongst these well groomed men and women and I hate them.

I hate them as my hair falls about my face in fits of self deprecating laughter.
I hate them as I sweat in secret beneath my oversized, overused coat.
I hate them as much as I am one of them.

I stand amongst these well groomed men and women as we sweat.