Coming Home

It's 7:15, my shift is done,
set off to journey home.

A woman with a Louis Vuitton purse steps on,
She fidgets uncomfortably and looks out of place.
I trust the purse is real because she looks fake,
Why is she taking transit?
The purse and a car probably cost the same amount,
I guess she chose one over the other.

The creaking doors open,
I step into the culture, the people, the life of downtown.
A street performer plays Stairway To Heaven,
The people criss cross.
We all hope to find that stairway.

The white stick man lights up,
That means it's time to move.
The wind demands our attention,
it slithers around the skyscrapers and navigators.
For the first time today, I feel cold.

The old polished couple strolls through,
The busy streets and winding lanes.
They exude wealth,
Their Armani glasses reflect the things they don't see.

The homeless man begs down low,
Everyone hustles by,
I look him in the eyes because no one else will.

The clouds roll in,
The sky is gray,
And I smile.

Rain means less customers.