choo.

the train is cold today. and where are you? i'm sitting in a corner seat, pudgy-nosed window-smudging to get a view of the advertisement-smattered dark. people hurry in and out of doors, looking down, concrete floors, missteps, nothing to see here, move along. i have a backpack. i pretend its your baby and hold it with respect and indifference. the end of the line isn't really the end, and it'll take more than a loudspeaker to make me move, all olive akimbo arms and nothing better to do.

so i look around.

too many people, blank faces on interchangeable stick figures, or solid american frames with pert piggy faces. i like to stare and be stared at. do they know more about me than i do? maybe. i look around. i wonder who loves. i wonder who has a great love, i wonder who had one, i wonder who never has. what is at home? fold-out trays and crinkled napkins and rabbit-eared football, cacophonous? or pretty thing, ironing, unhappy? no, i shouldn't doubt them all. maybe one, maybe two go home to eternity and wrap themselves up in it and sleep through the night zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzs so soft and fingers softer, lillies resting and tracing upper lips, languid blues. i hope so. i know what i've got ain't common, but thank god its mine. i'll keep it.

i squint. its a sunday on the subway, but i'll sit eyeless in neutrality and pass no judgement. being kind is the only thing that matters in the end anyway. i read a book.