Commute

I walk the walk, with the short people, the tall people, the people in suits, the people who can wear jeans to work, women in high heels, people in trainers, waddlers, fast walkers and those who drag their feet, with men who bundle people in their rush and those with shoes on with extra long toes.

I stand the stand waiting at the yellow line close to the platform edge. Weight on one foot, or distributed evenly with feet slightly apart. Watching the timer as the minutes tick down. I get on the first train even if it isn't an empty one that's just starting out. I leave others behind who choose to wait for the empty 1 in 3.

I balance the balance with people talking in low voices or louder foreign languages, with people crowded and clinging to poles or dangling from an overhead bar. Bodies pressed awkwardly, bumping, bags digging.

Sometimes when I'm lucky I sit the sit, bouncing along with the other seated, reading the paper comfortably, hiding from those standing around them. Sleeping or reading or deep in thought.

Then we rush the rush at interchanges, where the regulars choose an appropriate place by whichever exit or tunnel required to minimise time spent, or spewing from stations. Tripping over the case draggers and slow steppers and people who cut you up.