He was a struggling romancer
caught between,
Contagious frowns
on the 6:15.
Shoulder to shoulder
in muted malaise,
They were tiny pieces,
Bereft of choice.
Leaking in to stations,
in a trickle back for rest.
Yet in a pocket, within a notebook,
There were lines he drew,
Like in child times, in crayon blue,
Past the labyrinth of his plight.