We are up against our reflections; we press through them at the tone as we offboard. We all—step-a-cross-the-plat—form for a San Francisco train that isn’t waiting, isn’t there.
We are fanned out the length of the station, our bodies, our things—our paperbacks, backpacks, packed-lunch lunch-date datebook bookmarks, market-share, shareware, wherewithal, all of us, on our way, go—ing-to-be-late. We look once. We approach the yellow tiles, the safe-ty-zone-for-our-pro-tec-tion and we peer narrow-eyed down the tracks to look again.
We set our jaws and we lift them, together, toward the scrolling red text; we together check our watches, cell phones, gadgetry. There is a collective sigh and a collective turn—stunningly, beautifully choreographed—a mass about-face back toward the other set of tracks. And the lines reform and we wait.
[Originally at passthatatlas.blogspot.com]