subway movement

That friction sound of my subway card being run through it's swiping melts away as I walk, push over the cool turnstile with my shirted torso, and release into a gated ash and ashen-yellow strip of pavement – a trapped and darkened heat cavern where my body stands and waits and anticipates for nervous, jerking forward movement in bright, cool-air blowing tubes of transportation . . . and at last that friction sound reemerges terrible and amplified with my subway car sliding up metal tracks to catch and release me towards my new position in this swarm of primates that will earn me credit for food, drink, pleasurable moments; so I step quickly on, wrap my hand on metal, and shutter – forward – look – this woman on her ledge of fiberglass, eyes shut, lips silently moving, fingers gliding over a small gold colored decoration hung over her brown neck: transcending.