Exiting the train, commuter bodies pressed together,

Cattle in a slaughterhouse chute.

The only sound the shuffle of feet,

A bitter sound echoing from the past,

Reverberating through history,

Often heard in bread lines, welfare lines, gas chamber lines.

It’s the soundtrack of resignation, of going meekly to execution,

The scuffing noise of depression and hopelessness,

As we all step reluctantly to another day of work.

No wonder some of us punch our own ticket early,

Leap off life’s locomotive while it’s still moving,

Exiting the train before the final destination.

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