“A British commuter”

It was part of the bump and grind,

Being crammed against strangers

For hours on end.

No room to raise a hand to your nose

To escape the smells of sweat,

Or to bring your coffee to your lips.

Ever wary of the mysterious groper,

Cautious of the single mother and children,

And avoidant of the alcohol-infused homeless man,

This is the life of the daily-breader.