This train is clean, by any city’s standards –
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1 |
no urine scent, no syringes in the corners,
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2 |
no one unshaven or unshod.
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3 |
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Perhaps they are professionals,
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4 |
these passengers I must share space with;
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5 |
women in silk suits, men with taut ties.
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6 |
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I am tethered to nothing,
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7 |
weightless on my empty bones,
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8 |
my skin glowing pale
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9 |
(or so I imagine).
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10 |
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My hand grips the curve of cold rail
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11 |
as I balance now on heels, now on toes,
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12 |
as this train lumbers to each stop.
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13 |
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I catch men watching me;
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14 |
they turn away quickly, convicted,
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15 |
though not by my sins.
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16 |
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The women stare in envy
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17 |
(or so I imagine), at my success,
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18 |
my courage at dismissing food
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19 |
as improbable a weapon for
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20 |
anyone as independent as I.
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21 |
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|
High strung, the train wire and me –
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22 |
we pass beneath the source –
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23 |
one gulps in greed,
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24 |
one turns her head
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25 |
in sorrow at raw need.
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26 |
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|
A man offers me a cracker
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27 |
and I fall, whether in love
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28 |
with him or with his gift,
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29 |
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|
only my treacherous tongue could say.
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30 |