The Station
In all of this turning, the station remains still,
stationary. The stairwells and platforms are teeming
with bodies. These people are projectionists,
time travelers. Their minds beam forth
like the steady light cast from miner’s helmets
into the future: thirty minutes, an hour,
three hours, twelve. Busy human shells
flood the turnstiles, spin the metal racks
volunteering magazines, brochures,
postcards, correspondence. Autopilot
propels each person to a destination.
bodies arrive into humming, taupe offices,
fall into slate blue pneumatic office chairs
and find their minds already sorting inboxes.
What a relief, to sit alone and spin
in the privacy of ergonomic bliss.
Hannah Stephenson is a poet, writer, and instructor living in Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared in ouroboros review, Mankind Magazine, Spoonful, The Birmingham Arts Journal, and Artsy!Dartsy!. You can visit her daily poetry blog, The Storialist, at www.thestorialist.com.
qarrtsiluni 
projectionists, time travelers — yes. that’s exactly it!
Hannah, I love the last 2 lines, especialy, “ergonomic bliss.” The images jump out at you in the poem. Certainly, a prime poem for the theme. JT
You spun me!
Thank you for this poem which stills the whirlwind of life for at least a moment! If this poem is about stations in Los Angeles, I associate the word “projectionists” not only with time-travelers, but also with that region’s filmmakers, photographers, screen writers, etc.
Like! A lot!
Wonderful. It’s so easy to go through life on autopilot.
We’re putting the Translation issue to bed and I’m finally catching up with all the great stuff in Crowds I had missed; yours is a mighty fine one! I am absolutely thrilled to have your gorgeous song for the coming number!
Thanks for these kind comments. I look forward to that next issue, Alex! Glad my song will have a home in it.