Four mobile yet unmoving walls are the only thing
Between me and the grey streets and cold Houston air;
The only thing between me and a rainbow of people,
All searching for a way in.

A mass of brown faces stand between me and blissful solitude
And a stream of profanities violently push their way
Between my earbuds and my eardrums.
I close my eyes and pretend like none of its there.

The feeling of dread at being forced to ride in the yellow box
Of ill-inspired enthusiasm cloaks itself on me
And every other dark-eyed dreamer intently watching the movies
Playing through the cold, darkened windows.

But somehow, we are the lucky ones;
The ones sojourning to a place of dreams and new discoveries.
The journey is the hardest part but we quietly endure
Until the doors open for us and the sunlight can sweep across our faces.

And when the doors do open, we begin to look back
At the others spilling out through the same doors,
But now they have the faces of what could be future doctors, explorers, and leaders
Rather than the lost, simple-minded cases we had seen when we were inside the yellow box.

But none of them have changed.
They all look the same, are dressed the same in ill-fitting clothes
And have the same hard yet weakened and scarred faces.
But we have changed, somehow, by the experience of riding in the yellow box.