Wall Street Journals line the 2 trains floor as
Bostonian prints cover the news of snow and ISIS.
They map the way to waded seats under sugar lights.
Creating collages of financial stats and headlines.
Juan Jose checks his breathing watch, noticing
a small scratch across the silver tracked links.
His coffee swirls in a white cup, ringing the lid
like church bells with a roasted Colombian clapper.
It’s just Tuesday; his 8am was moved to 10, 10 to 11:30
but it’s fine because at 7pm he dines at moms.