On the SkyTrain

Bangkok has a public transportation system that is TO DIE FOR, with the SkyTrain being its crowning glory. The SkyTrain is an immaculate train that speeds along above Bangkok's chaotic colors and congested traffic. The inside of the SkyTrain is a simultaneously polite and infuriating space, as younger people relinquish their seats for their elders, people cover their mouths during cell phone conversations so not to disturb any fellow passengers, and eating and drinking are not allowed. However, most individuals also tend to not move all the way inside the train after boarding (a cardinal sin in American public transportation) and stand in a Gregorian knot near each of the doors. Other individuals have a habit of leaning the entire length of their bodies against the poles, thereby making it impossible for anyone else to hold onto them. This habit of, er, getting strangely intimate with the poles is especially annoying if someone decides to do this AFTER you've already been holding onto one. In this case, you suddenly find your hand lodged at the nape of a person's neck, or getting smushed by the jagged undulations of a person's spine.

For the most part, though, the SkyTrain has some of the most surprising people watching opportunities ever. I jotted this little ditty down (which is sorta a poem, but not really...it is intended to just be a string of observations and therefore doesn't really have a particular shape to it, in my humble opinion) after a particularly memorable SkyTrain ride today. Y'know what is LESS welcome on the SkyTrain (or any other form of transportation in Thailand) than crumbs or litter? FRUSTRATION. It's uncanny. People just DON'T GET FRUSTRATED. It's amazing to be surrounded by that kind of calm energy whilst on public transportation. It's beyond awesome.

A blind man
Covered in blisters, in burns
Makes his way to the door
A stranger holds his arm, steadies him,
Releases him when the door opens
Small surprises
Small explosions, bursts of compassion
Like capillaries across a face
My skin ages, freckles
Folds like linens, like letters
A small price to pay for
breath that comes like ink in water
Full
Freeing blood, releasing bone

A child squeezes a squeaking toy
It is the only sound that darts
Like an insect
Among these crowded bodies
Squeak, squeak, squeak
The muscles around my mouth start to contract
Causing creases
Squeak, squeak, squeak
My fingers grip each other
Like wire around electricity
Like gloves stifling a blossom
Squeak, squeak
SQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAK
My eyes expand, impatient saucers
Porcelain faces look back at me
Free of aggravated shapes, just
Skin like walls, like windows
Clear
The squeaking stops, its absence
Barely noticed
Like a hand withdrawing from a bucket of water
Leaving no ripples behind
The air in this shared space
Buzzes with calm
The indentation of disruptive sound is
Like a button on pavement
Like a pinprick in the night sky.