#5 Metropolitan

I have become acquainted, lately,
With the hands of strangers.
Mindful of small spaces,
We avoid each others' eyes
But I find myself
Hypnotised by signs of lives
Lived invisible to me except
For telltale skin, hints from nails,
The way some grips never falter
And others slip, regrouping at
Every other breath.

I've become obsessed with knuckles,
Wondering at how they buckle minds
To poles as their owners shift and sway,
Maybe already waiting for their bodies
At their destinations,
Or lingering behind.

No wonder that the strap-hangers
Seem to mourn,
Bereft of spirit,
Antennae coiled,
Clipping the close air around them into
The space defined by music, maps,
And the convenient trap of handspace,
Their lives carved into
Scrimshawed anchors.

I uncouple, step free
To find myself reflected
In the fleeting, myriad slivers
Of commuters' reflections,
Select a face to best fit
And slip, another salmon,
Up to air, to reach myself again,
Running my fingers in greeting
Over my own unspoken grain.