Scented Commute

Another dreary morning my alarm clock admits
Still weary from the hours I can't rest
I rise from my bed and walk into a pot of coffee
The day I dread while my coffee brews
A piss, a shave, a shower
Black jeans or grey? To black I cave
My shirt the same color as the back of my eyelids
Still dreaming that I don't have to work

Three or four blocks away is Soto Station
My destinations golden first path
It smells of tamales and champurrado
Elote and pan dulce as my stomach wails
The ride is smooth, viejitos and students
Nurses and the homeless man with a stench crude
The carrito treats being eaten from the bus seats
Are forgotten as soon will be the smell of his feet

I transfer to Union Station
Los Angeles' congested hub, my trips next answer
My face flushed red from the smell of perfume and cologne
All of these cups of coffee cannot displace
The smell of everyone who can only smell better than they look
The people are tired from being tired and never understand
How their smell's pleasantry is not for all noses
Luckily my stop comes soon

One more train at 7th and Metro Station
My face joins the others who can't act, our faces blue
For we're being carried further and further away from our beds
The air is stale, no smell worth seeing
I don't think my nose could ever tell
There is not a smell that it can discern, that it knows
When the projects are on both sides of the tracks
I realize that my ride is closer to work than home

The Willowbrook/Rosa Parks Station and soon I'll be working
We ride along side of the the freeway jammed with green cars
How they wish that they could move as swiftly as us
On this train I smell optimism about the day
Sleep isn't all I should want or know
I am conscious and prepared for everything that would
Finally, I arrive to work those hours I didn't sleep
Hopefully, I'll survive the rest of this dreadful week