Train of thought

The subterranean rythmn of this city never sleeps,
Constantly moving back and forth; endless trips.
Twenty four seven are the stories told,
Countless faces; some even die in the cold.
Quiet vagabonds trying to live in,
Their rush hour stench is true sin.
Pregnant woman standing,
Loud kids rambling,
No one will give their seat;
Now isn't that something?
The air condition is warm and stale.
Someone let her sit already;
She's turning pale.
A signal malfunction is heard aloud,
Fustrated faces; A serious crowd.
She's finally given a seat,
By an elderly woman who's still on her feet.
Late for work, and hardly moving,
I think of the things we should all be doing