MRT.

A social studies lecture once

told me; that we stick to

one another for protection

and for companionship.

 

But here where we call home,

protection and companionship

exist where we brace ourselves

for train-rides home, pretending

to sleep and praying not to be

recognized. Where our faces are painted

with less expression

than traffic lights.

 

It is these evening pilgrimages

that we think of when we say

“heartland”, the sights of huddling

strangers, and the sounds

of fake voices.

---

A couple mutters in Cantonese,

hoping nobody catches

their secret nothings.

 

The irony is that

there is no-one to hear them,

amidst the automated speeches,

hearts clamoring for

more standing space, and

Sony-Ericsson Walkman earphones,

blocking the banter,

surround sound.

 

The couple go on whispering

their unnoticed love.

---

Children learn to read,

cross-legged on non-descript seats.

It is not a mother who teaches them,

but a storybook.

 

Elsewhere, parents look away

as teenagers bury their heads

in handphones. The antisocial one?

Not my kid.

 

Adults bow their heads

in pretended rest. A long

day of paperwork is

simply too much.