going, going

while taking the whistling graffiti marked train
the grey way across town, clack clack,
the exasperated bald headed man ten rows ahead angrily barks,
i hear every word of his cell phone conversation.

then from someone beyond,
through the door open to the train car behind,
paint peeling blaring terrible mechanical music
the kind of Steven King’s mad amusement park

got my attention;
redirected it inward, whir, clack, clack,
recalling bygone days when civil people
respected others space and tranquility.

what am i telling you for?
you don’t appear unaware to me,
you must have a modicom of sensitivity
hell, you’re even reading poetry.