8.20 Train

Summer nights all sounds the same;
the rattle of the heat, against the
humidity and the thick of the shame
that settles on the city
eleven floors below.

My skin is sticky with cigarette smoke,
and the wretched weariness
that feels more like dehydration of the mind;
each thought, each movement – an effort
not unlike a dying animal at the end.

The 8.20 train squeals past, reminding
me that I am not dying. I just hate the heat,
and the people that lurk in it –
the sweaty half baked passive happy people.
It’s just me, who needs less white noise.