friday evening 6:00
I’m curled into the corner of the orange plastic
headphones on, eyes half-closed
but watching,
watching all the businessmen flood on and scurry off
watching the tired-looking tourists with their bent maps and blisters
watching lookalike pairs of girls swing their hair and gossip
and I wonder where monday morning will see them
and I wonder where my weekend will take me
it seems these weekends don’t explode like they used to
but move with the lulling rhythm of the wheels and the hiss and thud
of each stop.
there’s a woman opposite me in a purple dress
with fat legs encased in black stockings sitting like stumps in dirty sneakers
her dress is expensive but her makeup is smudged,
her eyes empty.
her seatmate is a redfaced man with an almost-hidden bald spot
and a newspaper and thermos;
briefly I wonder if despite their silence they are together
but he gets off at the next stop
and she doesn’t look up.
I close my eyes
and lean my head against the rattling window,
fighting a headache.
four stops later I lift my head again;
the train is outside now, but it’s dark
and the dingy night blends flawlessly with the dank tunnel walls.
the purple shape across from me still droops;
her face would be a scowl
if the lines in her waxy lips and pencil-thin eyebrows
were more angry, and less sad.
finally the wheels groan to a halt again,
the last stop on the orange line and the passengers move
like apathetic cattle
(I avoid looking at the woman as she shuffles to her feet)
I turn up my music to drown the buzz of tired voices in the bassline,
and hope there is a friend against the wall outside
so I pull my jacket close against the november wind
and shake this metro gloom from my cobwebby thoughts.