Rush hour in Tokyo during a typhoon

There are people on the train, yet it is empty
It is packed with bodies
Empty of souls,
Emotions on hold.

As the gravid transporter inches into the station with hesitation,
Bodies compress,
Sending a bellow of breath back up nostril.
And I feel alive and well,
Being the only poet aboard this rolling wheeled tube of humanity
Insanity, really.

They make not a sound save a grunt when someone’s diaphram is depressed.
Tolerance on this scale is strange
Even after 17 years
Sweet naiveté
Sweet Nihon,
Numb and tender,
Under the typhoon’s eye.