The Next Stop’s a Cloud

Another no one in particular at first:

In his early twenties maybe,

height and build average,

hair blondish-brownish,

neither short nor long;

but to complement his

shorts, T-shirt, and trainers,

he wears a mad and toothy grin

that’s making some other passengers edgy. . .

Though there are seats, he stands–

hovers really–by the doors

at one end of the car,

then makes his way to the other end,

then returns to his original position,

where he begins to execute

a choreography set to music

that plays only in his head.

Not dangerous, just a little higher

than the city’s skyline.

The rest of us, mortal, merely

ride the subway;

but he, invincible,

though underground,

dances on air.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

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