So many fucking stories

Line 9, late
Going home, drunk, tired
As I board the train
There’s a guy laying on the floor
He’s not all there
He’s sucking his thumb
Looks like no pain though
Good for him

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A long goddamned day

Very late on Line 9
Too late for this
Across the tracks, on the opposite platform
A couple
With a baby carriage
You hardly ever come across baby carriages in Paris’ metro
Too many steps to get in and out
I can’t see the baby but I can hear him
He’s crying, loudly
Among the winos and the bums keeping warm
And the last revelers laughing still
Mom & Pop
Seem despondent
Not knowing what to do or where to go
There’s no help coming
And this kid is howling, howling
Despair
Plenty of despair

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Marc is done rumbling

Marc

Going home
Late on Line 9
There’s Marc, gray hair
“I’m a designer,” he says
“Ho,” I say
“I designed a flacon for Dior,”
“Great,” I say
“You know, they don’t care about my work
I’m just budget studies
To design their flacon
It’s way above me
What I did, nobody will ever care
And now it’s the end of the line for me.”
“Line 9,” I said.
“Yep, Line 9,” he said.

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