Are We There Yet?

by: Justina Avent

Hollowed click clacks descending this dreaded underground network. 

Immersed in hot air, sweat beads aggregate on the temples of your foreheads. The painful grips of groceries claim their stake in your palms.

Squeezing through the three-clawed mechanical gate.

Insufficient fare. Aggravated sigh.

The low rumble of the 3 escalates into a swelling symphony of motorized hums, swooshes of wind, and abrupt screeches.

Filing in the cart like packed sardines.

Missed connection. Aggravated sigh.

Morose expressions. Pure exhaustion engulfs droopy eyes. The monotonous lull of the train serves as the soundtrack of your commute.

A day’s worth of bodily aches pulsate down from your neck to your heels. Exasperated exhales.

Are we there yet?

With every stop, the cart of sardines gradually dissipates. Brown and black bodies remain aboard for the long haul.

An open seat. A sigh of relief.

Beggars of all shapes and sizes shuffle through. And so do a stream of unfulfilled requests. 

The train comes to a screeching halt. This is the last stop. This is us.


Squeezing through the three-clawed mechanical gate.

Hollowed click clacks ascending this dreaded underground network. 

Immersed in cold air, sweat beads evaporate from the temples of your foreheads. The painful grips of groceries maintain their stake in your palms.

Pounding the pavements to make your connection.

Insufficient fare. Aggravated sigh.

The low rumble of the B83 escalates into a swelling symphony of motorized hums, swooshes of wind, and abrupt screeches.

Filing in the bus like packed sardines.

Morose expressions. Pure exhaustion engulfs droopy eyes. The monotonous lull of the bus serves as the soundtrack of your commute.

A day’s worth of bodily aches pulsate down from your neck to your heels. Exasperated exhales.

Are we there yet?

With every stop, the bus of sardines gradually dissipates. Brown and black bodies aboard for the long haul.

An open seat. A sigh of relief.

Beggars of all shapes and sizes shuffle through. And so do a stream of unfulfilled requests. 

Nighttime has dawned upon us. 

The bus comes to a screeching halt. This is your stop. A sigh of relief.


Squeezing through the mechanical doors.

Hollowed click clacks descending the dreaded above-ground network.

The painful grips of groceries maintain their stake in your palms.

Pounding the pavements to make your final connection.

Are we there yet?

Morose expressions. Pure exhaustion engulfs droopy eyes. 

A day’s worth of bodily aches pulsate down from your neck to your heels. Exasperated exhales.

Passing by beggars of all shapes and sizes. Leaving behind a stream of unfulfilled requests.

Your front porch in sight. A sigh of relief.

Keys jingling. Doors opening. This is your stop.

Finally, home.

~ by jca428 on November 3, 2019.

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