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.


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