A pre-recorded voice directs
The riders to an elevator.
The message that my ear detects
Concerns a lurking alligator.
My sunny mood has turned to black.
Announcements shatter my elation:
Because they’re working on the track
This train will skip my destination.
A line of placards overhead
Encourages our courtesy.
The passengers below manspread.
Two seats for one leaves no seat free.
Impatient boarders shove and squeeze.
At 96th they run amok.
Despite conductors’ loudest pleas,
They jam the doors. The train is stuck.
The Métro he saw isn’t ours.
We are not Pound’s poetic petals,
But specimens of well-pressed flowers,
Mixed in with frequent stinging nettles.