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.