I was born on a moving train:
the force of inertia has kept me on it,
and the strangers who sit around me
have always been here, too.
There is the man whose cigarette always burns,
even when the window is closed,
his white sneakers laced up like scars.
The child at his side holds her head
in her hands, carefully, without looking up.
Near me sits a woman with a map
perpetually unfurled. She never gets off.
The separateness among the four of us
hangs in the air like a crooked frame on the wall;
we are waiting for someone else
to board the train.
the force of inertia has kept me on it,
and the strangers who sit around me
have always been here, too.
There is the man whose cigarette always burns,
even when the window is closed,
his white sneakers laced up like scars.
The child at his side holds her head
in her hands, carefully, without looking up.
Near me sits a woman with a map
perpetually unfurled. She never gets off.
The separateness among the four of us
hangs in the air like a crooked frame on the wall;
we are waiting for someone else
to board the train.