Literary Work
Commuting into Myself Bob McNeil
The fare to travel this visceral subway always goes up. Commuting into myself reveals train tracks are my bones, third rails are my nerves, and hungry rats encapsulate my disposition. Superego Transit Cops believe my feelings could be underground cells, all anarchistic in nature, so, they check the bags under my eyes, considering if that’s where I keep my pipe bomb visions. My ill temper transfers from train to train, from thought to thought.
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Sure enough, my neuroses out gripes sexagenarian grumblers with each train delay, derelict aspirations panhandle, pleading to get some pleasure, and my other big bipolar hordes can’t get their problems through the exits. The Inner Voice Address System apologizes about the traffic up ahead. It explains why turtles in a tar pit would be better at transporting me to my destination. Ever a philomath, I inspect the transit map and seek life’s right station. Maybe, perhaps on the next ride, I’ll find it.
