On the Shuttle

The shuttle travels back and forth,
Grand Central to Times Square.
Since they’re the only stops it makes,
You’re either here or there.

The ride is barely long enough
For any thoughts to sprout,
‘Cause in a minute, maybe two,
The doors will spit you out.

But in my car today, there was
A sleeping man who reeked;
If he had used deodorant,
It long ago had peaked.

I wonder just how many times
He’d traveled forth and back,
Repelling all but those
Whose sense of smell they seemed to lack.

The city grabs your senses
In a way not very subtle.
The proof of that was there today,
Malodoring the shuttle.