Collapsed on weathered tiles,
it's nearly breaking dawn,
after endless neon miles,
of tunnels under ground,
stuffy air recycled,
sweating bodies all crammed in,
pressing at the windows,
coal black and paper thin,
grabbing at the handles,
swaying, all in time,
regular as clockwork,
as mice play on the line,
uncomfortably quiet,
must be nearly home,
same again tomorrow,
with all the other drones.
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