This is my MTA

How am I supposed to call an MTA employee or police officer
When I am fighting gravity in the middle of the wagon?
The MTA employee is far away from me.
If a man touches my buttocks “accidentally” who will I complain to.
When it could’ve been the four men behind me,
While a big sweaty man's breath reaches my nose
And all I can do is look down in distaste.
How am I
Supposed to scream.
When an older extravagant woman in her fedora hat
Stares at me with that snotty face wishing
She could suck my youth?
The four men behind me can’t be blamed.
I mean they are men!
Who is to say perversion isn’t part of their nature.
The real spectacle would be me.
If I would even try to complain about an inappropriate touch.
How am I supposed to defend myself?
How can I release the shadow beast
When I can’t even move?
When time and space is
Maneuvered by the rocking of the train?
When I am in this place due to a greater cause.
I stand right here
Trapped by the system that locks us in a box.
We are the experiment.
NYC is the city of rats.
We are the subjects in NYC.
As the subjects
We are forced.
We have no choice but to squeeze ourselves into this box.
The box will lead us to a final destination.
Before we got on
We were rebellious and sensible beings.
The ride is the vessel of transference.
I see the ads around me
Our infamous “Before” obese woman next to
The “After” skinny woman
Who isn’t the “Before” woman in the picture.
Surgery!
Liposuction!
Again, with the suction.
This ride is meant to drain our lives.
Now the door opens
No one moves
Shhh!
We have been programmed.
We are now sucked into the system
And all we can do is wait.
Wait to get off
Somehow,
We all intuitively know
We are not there yet.