This train is clean, by any city’s standards –

no urine scent, no syringes in the corners,

no one unshaven or unshod.

 

Perhaps they are professionals,

these passengers I must share space with;

women in silk suits, men with taut ties.

 

I am tethered to nothing,

weightless on my empty bones,

my skin glowing pale

(or so I imagine).

 

My hand grips the curve of cold rail

as I balance now on heels, now on toes,

as this train lumbers to each stop.

 

I catch men watching me;

they turn away quickly, convicted,

though not by my sins.

 

The women stare in envy

(or so I imagine), at my success,

my courage at dismissing food

as improbable a weapon for

anyone as independent as I.

 

High strung, the train wire and me –

we pass beneath the source –

one gulps in greed,

one turns her head

in sorrow at raw need.

 

A man offers me a cracker

and I fall, whether in love

with him or with his gift,

 

only my treacherous tongue could say.