BY STVENSON GEORGE TUPAS
4:51 p.m. Standing behind the yellow line,
Every commuter minds the gap between
The platform and the train, scared to fall
To the yawning crater of gravel. Lysa’s first time
To use the rail breeds both fear and excitement:
Afraid to fall; excited to travel unaccompanied.
Her step is a gallop. The siren reminds her
Of deadlines, due dates and dramas in between.
Her medals, certificates and plaques are symbols
Not of victory, but of obedience to rules.
Passengers sit and stand like molecules of solid:
Compact. But her mind’s like gas — nomadic.
“Should I mind the tongues that transmit?
How about the ears that heed?”
The heat, the smell, the noise, the proximity
Don’t bother her anyway. “Pedro Gil Station.”
4:56 p.m. She steps out of the train with misplaced locks,
A wrinkled chemise and a face holding the fountain.
Like a survivor who braved the war at last,
She follows her own command, flouting
The norms the watchful eyes have set.
Her pursing lips touch those of the gray-haired
Gentleman waiting. “I’ll disobey for the first time.
Mind the love, not the gap,” she professed.
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