NON GRATA PERSONA GUY (THREE SIXTY FIVE!!!!)

So I'm walking down the platform trying to find the perfect spot at which to board the train.  The train is late...or I'm early again, depending on how you want to look at it..."Perfect" (as in spot--see above) is a variable mainly because the "ridership," as the transit authority likes to call it, is in flux (maybe one might say it's not so much "in" flux as it is actually "a" flux) and a lot can happen, especially if you're one of them...you know, one of those guys, those chaps, who mix and mingle and connect.  Once that road is trod (upon)?, next thing you know  you're stuck with whatever comes down the pike--standing there on the platform, waiting for the train to THE CITY contemplating the "ridership"--watching the people coming off the boat measure the distance between this and that, could they make it they wondered..."if I run, starting...now, would it make that critical difference between making the train and not (making the train)?"  It nagged at them, didn't it?  Even standing there gazing down the barrel of the 7:40 am train, waiting for it to trundle its silvery shaft along the rails into the station, benefiting from the perspective the boaty folks lacked, having the luxury to know better about the arrival, or not, of the train.  I could wait, patient, I could watch them run up the stairs, and at the same time measure "the platform" and admire the mix that accumulated at the mercy of an assortment of facts--who would take the train and who would not, who was taking a day off and who was not, who called in sick, who was laid off, who had had enough!!  No one today, at least no one who might command attention, left to his own plans (best laid), a man of leisure, left to read or nap or scan the news as he would. For now, a public posting (not unlike this one--the posts, public to be sure but who was reading?) about what was called a plan for evacuation on a train platform mounted sign post.
It's really a killzone they're talking about right?  At this distance, given these logistics, what really were the chances after all?  The call them "Native Americans" now but it's starting to feel like they got the last laugh.  We name our town, our mall and our power plants after them and then watch helplessly as our own hubris backs us up against a wall.  Within the "killzone," whether it's by one-time massive dose or slow-acting, horn-sprouting evolution on speed, we are all persona non grata, NONE are welcome, the buffet is closed, the parking lot is full, the theatre is sold-out.  What would become of all of our petty ramblings and earnest worries then?  Close all the bank accounts, college funds and 401K's.  There's no one left at the wheel.