The Queen of Suburbia commands it.
In her Temple we must bow our heads
in silence, under plain glass windows
and coffered ceilings.
Each red brick holds a commuter’s soul.
Spirits wait patiently on concourse seats
for those they love to return.
Each generation commutes
passing through turnstiles
that mark them in and mark them out.
Daily they live in hope
but tomorrow waits dead ahead.
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