mass transit on a morning commute

In a heroic effort I bolt down the subway steps – slipping in between the sliding frames that box people in like sardines.
“Stand clear of the closing doors please”
Somehow I shove my packaged body among my fish friends. It even smells like sardines. The girl to my right keeps her eyes down. She is meditating. Some find peace in this morning ritual, I suppose. The man next to me is covered in chains and tattoos – I’m within inches of his breath. The warm of his day-old cologne passes over my skin. Here I stand, intimately wrapped around and through these strangers – nobody acknowledging anybody – averted eyes as bodies press up against each other . . . until skin touches skin on accident and a quick apology is mumbled.
I clear my throat but you can’t hear it over the rattle of the train, shift my weight and take my place in this ipod culture – shutting out the people I bathe with in this humid heat.
The doors open and everyone begins breathing again, shoving their way to the exits like a tournament round of moveable chairs or whatever we used to play at family reunions.
doors ding and the train jolts into movement.