Poem: Transit

Fingers on the windowpane,

in transit, communing

with the falling rain.

Up from the streets, the too-cheerful weary breathing

of the city. Thousands of homeward-bound

hearts latch on to the rising vapors

for a ride.

Down through the clouds,

marshmallow-soft and glowing white.

We begin the descent, to fall upon

The sun-scorched sidewalk, to go

from there and back again.

Fingers on the rain-streaked glass,

we ride toward the spectra

born of water and dust.

Roll down the windows, and open the doors -

closing time has gone way past, and we are

finally, blissfully 

home.