I take the same train everyday
the 06.57, housing three 1-year-old institutions to voyeur
the 40-something housewife clutching a basket empty
the short-skirted teen with self-esteem made from fleeting glances
and the straight-laced male executive wedged in between
conjoined triplets craving
what little acknowledgement of their existence
beyond the beeps of their punch cards
on society’s gantries
the auntie is charity’s druggie
enacting a daily habit
of dominating thrones, only to abdicate
to the most wretched case she sees
and then mistaking gratitude for willingness
to listen to life stories
when everyone would rather eavesdrop
on everyone’s iphone
or not at all.
I know where the guy stands, ramrod straight
the way he looks at the opposite window
without excuse
a brazen criminal after the tunnels of Tiong Bahru
to memorise every minute detail
whereupon in the evenings after work
he would pore over photos on facebook, half-naked
and finding none, settle for someone else instead.
the girl likes to stand at raffles place
after a generous 7-minute display of her thighs
to offer an additional serving of the rear
even while she endures incessant droning and a warm fuzzy feeling
pretending to use her phone
she celebrates others’ lives online
everyday’s 23-minute ride
starring weird auntie and stalker uncle
where likes and comments and cattle prods
become vindication of one’s worth.
people play-pretend isolation
when in fact, they desire to touch
more than just plastic hand-grips or cool metal bars.
