I take the underground a few stations, from home to studio. I love all the other people, all on their own missions, all other people who aren't me.
Cool Dad, hat and sunglasses, with his toddler, she wants to look out the window and dance, he wants to read the newspaper, he pushes her in behind him on the seat, back to back, her standing, him sitting, always in contact, paying attention, she knows she is loved and he can read the sports section.
Uncool old guy, must be over sixty years old, dressed like his Mum chose for him, shorts pulled up too high, white socks too white, shirt too nice, I bet he thought the word "smart" when he looked in the mirror, unless his mother was actually there to say it for him. Imagine living sixty years and learning nothing about cool, about cutting strings?
Clarinet carrying guy sits opposite, eyes off my tenor saxophone, envious, he should be, I do have a bigger cock than him.
If you lived in Sydney would you get on my train? Would you pick the carriage in the middle where it is quieter, would you sit close enough for me to say hello? Would I find an excuse to speak to you? What if the escalator down to the platforms was blocked by schoolkids and I was held up by thirty seconds, missed this train and caught the next one, would we never meet?
I love all the people on the train, I love that they aren't me, I'd love for one to be you.