by tremens

the pathetic fallacy

i peer from the commode and see
three hundred clean men in dirty undershirts
that scamper into lego seats
and fade into the pews
waiting in mass silence for momentum
to begin with a roar, knuckles bowing and
clinging for dear life
onto metal poles that lean them farther
from three hundred dirtier ones

from the seat of an air-conditioned car
with ions, vapour and extra-added iron
i cannot smell the trees
or the sweat of Bangladeshi workmen
that erected that huge sign –
there! to embalm spelling mistakes
in fluorescent
bequeathed by obediently
printed balloons

odd-numbered levels for women
and evens for the gents
my suburbs lead to the same
outdated and peeling malls
of single-serving shops
markets run by moustachioed women
and the counters of watery ice cream
where aged fathers smuggle melted desserts
for teenagers a train-ride away