TMI

Clutching the long metal pole,
I speak inanely rather than 
revealing the inner workings
and goings-on of my mind,
intensely aware that every syllable
dripping from my lips
seems to be spoken too loudly
and is suddenly absorbed 
from every angle
by the men and women
pretending to stare straight ahead
at the map depicting 
the possible routes
they could take
to find their way home
(or wherever it is they may travel
on this hot, humid evening)
encased by recirculated air
that smells of stale bodies.

I know this is the case,
because I do it too.

An older man and woman
spoke across the rush-hour masses -
wedged against the door
and crushed in the middle,
respectively - and discovered
they were from the same neighborhood,
but everyone "was moved or dead" by now,
and his sister had stolen her daughter's clothes
under the pretext of borrowing them,
and his mama had once thrown her
out of their house,
but apologized later,
and he apologized now
to make up for his sister and mother,
and an intimacy was established
as the rest of the car listened intently,
completely discomfited,
unable to escape,
secretly fascinated
by the scene unfolding.
Small world after all.

Recently, a man entered the train
wearing a backback,
sat down in the middle of the floor,
and began rocking back and forth,
muttering to himself,
"I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy"
and slowly but surely,
the world being as it is right now,
he was surrounded by emptiness,
an ever-growing circumference
of steadily-increasing fear
as people moved cars.
He slapped the map and declared,
"There's a demon on Staten Island!"
Be that as it may,
he manifested his own mantra,
left alone on the floor,
speeding toward that which he feared.

TMI, you might say,
too much information 
as the abbreviation goes;
if you speak of your life 
on the subway
it becomes public fodder,
a newer version
of airing your dirty laundry,
and can end up 
in someone's poem.