Friday Evening
You didn’t check a single line
from that ambitious weekly sign.
No neon izakaya glow,
no sake laughs that start to flow—
just the rush-hour squeeze and slide
on the city’s most breathless ride.
The air is stale, the silence thick,
your thoughts feel loud, your watch won’t tick.
A triple burger waits ahead
beyond the tunnels painted red.
And Pepsi Raw, ice-cold and sweet,
calls to your bones like a backroom beat.
It’s not a feast, it’s not a plan,
but tonight, it’s all you understand.
In your ears,
Hey Jude plays low,
a voice that knows what you won’t show.
You mouth the line—
don’t carry the world upon your shoulders—
but your spine already cracked
three stations back.
