Everything Rolling Away

The 42-Line smells like wet wool and exhaust,

but then the paper bag gave way—a soft, wet tear.

A dozen oranges hit the floor and we all lost

our collective boredom. They rolled everywhere,

under the heater, knocking against the muddy boots

of a man in a suit and a kid with a pierced nose.

We were all on our knees suddenly, chasing the fruits,

a scramble of hands and apologies and wet clothes.

For a second, the citrus cut through the heavy smog,

and my own bitterness felt like a stain I could scrub.

We handed them back to her, one by one, through the fog

of our breath, just people moving together in the hub.