Thin ice
The feet bore him, into a tiny train, in which, all of us commuters, many dressed formally, either, had something, in our hands, a phone, grab bar, or book, he was light, with cotton-white insufferable, pajama breeches, that were bumped up, naughtily, a darkly hued man, in a penguin style tuxedo, sat in the back, he would, intermittently, break into a, hum and mmh! perhaps he had, a private, conversation, with an invisible Ozymandia, Alas! We forgot, the man with, the naughtily, bunched up pajama breeches, we found something to, comment on , or reaffirm, our fears, the tuxedoed man, got a thumbs down.