It's been past 7:00 PM,
the golden sun long set
the sounds of the street
no longer hum, they roar.
The sleeping beast awakens,
the people drawn to him.
In the bustling streets of the metro
everywhere you will see
men carrying their cases,
women in smart-looking dresses
going to places where
they sell cheap wine
not by the bottle
but on steeply priced glasses.
It's been past 7:00 PM,
and long gone were
the crickets whose songs
I hear on evenings
a couple of decades ago
when I was just a little child.
Now I am riding a yellow coach
no longer drawn by a horse
but by cold lumps of metal
that breathes out a cloud of smoke.
YOU ARE READING
The Daily Commute
PoetryWe are constantly on a move. Going out, going home. And every day is a new story.op Let's recount the moments We spend on the road.
