Full

Street car is full. “Sawry, sawry.” Push bags tripping young and old alike. Old faces lined with hurt. Dark skinned beauty stands tall, proud. Under her sharp chin it curves in, skeletal but stunning. Bags in your face. Bums in your face. Shuffling feet. Tiny window too far back to catch the wind. Legs at chest height; these spaces are made for 5 year olds. Neck twisted, journey weary back complains. The wrong side of the trolley. Sun attacks each time we pass the shade of a taller building. Phoe. Dieing. No idea where I’m meant to go. Don’t really care either. Just don’t want to be sweaty again. “Behind the white line!” Enough leave. Some space.