T Time Poem, by Me

Riding the T it seems to me
This mode of transportation
Is not what it should be.
Convenient it is,
Although rarely on time,
The orange line it works,
But is less than sublime.

First are the odors of people en mass--
At times I just gag and need a gas mask.
From pie holes and armpits in need of some soap,
To sweet stinky perfume, or maybe it's dope.

Next there are the habits, of humans not pigs,
Who smoke on the platform the nastiest of cigs.

Trash from Fleet Center, gum, chips and waste,
A variety of junk and certainly tastes.

The Metro, the daily, it litters the seat,
And if it not that it’s some students’ feet.

All this trash, not recycled but strewn
Could really use a big ol broom.

The people who dine and commute all at once
Eat their breakfast and dinner in front of us all
They balance and totter but never do fall.
People Obese from life on the go,
But they don’t seem worked up and go with the flow.

The bumping and blaring of the pods on their ears,
From hip-hop to what-not so loud I can hear,
Their eardrums are screaming and wishing for peace,
And so do mine right next in the seat.

Day-in and day-out the same route they take,
The drivers, god bless them for safety’s sake
So boring their jobs are, they must feel quite sad,
Which is why their announcements are often so bad.
From sing song to mumbles each stop is declared,
But what they are saying? No one seems to care.

The orange line is mine and ride it I do
It’s all that I’ve got so manage I do
Choice I have not, A commuter I am
But damn that damn T
However convenient
really bugs me