I step on.
Was it supposed to rain today?
The carriage lit with lamps.
I glance past a hand holding a long sandwich.
A cap placed delicately in another's.
It feels like a checkerboard, but more pure.
It doesn't shake, only tinkers.
It is only when I sit down at a table, and look out the carriage window,
That I can admire and watch, as we leave the subway, that the grey walls turn into green hills.
That all is good in the world.