On The Train
On this morning I rode the train, more conscious this morning than most. Sheaves of sunlight strayed before me, knifing through smeared windows.
I felt a strange comfort afforded me, almost a drug, a cloak of utter awareness.
Outside those windows, winter’s cold shown on frozen faces of the weed filled meadowlands.
Last year’s dead grass went by in blinding waves of browns. The gray sky stood atop the horizon as birds navigated its face, and I could not help wondering why I was here.
Not here now, on the train, amongst the commuters, but here in this world, on this planet.
I looked down and my hands looked not like mine. They seemed of an older vintage, and my eyes looked back at me from the windows as rail trash swirled on an eddy.
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