Sing A Poor Song

The MRT rails sing their cicada tone,
A tuneless note in harmony with a descending moan.
The train slows to a timely stop,
Precisely on the dimely spot.
The passengers are silent, in neutral mode,
Their thoughts focused on Orchard Road
Or Pasir Ris or Boon Lay Way,
Where home or office or shopping or mosque
                                      in their private paths soon will lay.
But what of their selves, each one called 'me',
Each mind alone in a peopled sea?
Do they wonder how the others feel and live?
Or simply wish that MRT door would give.

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  ¶ 1:46 am