Metro

The ants of Paris are

the people,

their queen, the carriage.

Steadily reborn to die

they pull and push

with their suitcases, half-read books

and non-smiling lips towards the exit.

The empty faces snarl

to no one in particular

and everyone:

"Here is my road. I am walking here.

Get off my road. Pardon-and-excusez-moi

my stringy ass."

So many different faces

joined in one expression.

So many colours

seeing only red.

The ants of Paris

are the people,

the people

are the world

being passed through

a labyrinth-rectum.

Still.

It's better than London,

or Seoul,

or Bangkok,

or not.