By Bethany Lankin
You gave my seat to your luggage.
Your children pulled my hair.
You tossed your umbrella into my lap.
It was wet but you didn’t care.
Your latte burnt my shoulder.
It spilled from your lid-less cup.
I give up.
I watched you as you clipped your nails.
Small crescent moons flew in the air.
Your keratin and dead skin cells –
they landed on my shirt and hair.
Then you screamed into your phone
about your date last night with Lou.
I hate you.
You spread your legs apart and take two spaces for yourself.
It reminds me of a joke my ribald uncle use to tell.
Shifting his weight in his chair he’d say,
“These pants are like a cheap hotel,”
and then yell, “There’s no ballroom!” And we’d laugh.
But your quest for testicular lebensraum hurts my thigh
so you should die.
Your generous backpack crushed my spine.
It chiseled my flesh like a pickaxe.
You’re just one of many Quasimodos
whose bags have disfigured my thorax.
Bags go on the floor between your feet
or neatly on your lap if you can sit
you stupid twit.
Each time the train stopped at a station
we experienced “a slight delay.”
You stood like a statue in front of the door
and refused to move out of the way.
I’m tired of being patient but always late instead.
So you and the bulk of this line’s clientele
can rot in hell.
Now I get to spend much more time,
thanks to three-track operation,
with the boorish, rude, and selfish
through delays for renovation.
Your self-important attitudes
and Lilliputian brains
drive me insane.
In exchange for longer wait times
and severely crowded trains,
for patience during station closings,
What will riders gain?
New eight-car trains that run less often?
Security cameras instead of police?
We’ve been fleeced.
The CTA is our New Colossus
But this mighty woman is not the same.
Our tired, our poor, our huddled masses
have been given a torch with no flame.
Where did the life saving heat lamps go?
We got toadstool benches instead.
I wish you were dead.
So thank you fellow riders
and thank you CTA.
You’ve made this kind and gentle soul
become what she is today.
I’m tired and I’m angry and I can’t take any more.
I guess we’ll suffer through gridlock.
Perhaps we’ll walk.
Posted on May 2, 2007