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.