Morning Commute

Five words only heard above the din:
“ – Now, since the last abortion – ”.
The train roars onward through the tunnel,
Blurring whatever else is said.
Bodies press together in the crowded car,
Damp coats graze umbrellas loosely furled.
Throat bare, someone sighs,
“Ten more stops, and then – ”.
Hands on the pole nearly touch.
Glances briefly rise, meet furtively,
Then turn downward.
Quiet longing: muttered, close contained,
Almost intimate. Just a little short.