the stalled train the anger the rage 
that crawls into your face 
in through the eyes the teeth the feet 
the way your body 
is an instrument you play you play you play 
until the strings are worn the question 
old 
and sliding 
down the perspex 
onto the ragged heap
of rush hour blues that accrued before it
before your minor key spit 
added to the blend
of I wanna get home and all the wanna get homes that came before it