Without wi-fi on the train
my mind thinks in poems
because reality carves seriousness in places
it should never be.
Word-string after word-string stitched together,
made beautiful and unearthly,
hang invisibly between us.
I put down my book, and listen to the
conversation of strangers.
“This relationship is better for her,” a girl says
“her ex was an unhealthy obsession.”
Did she settle? I wonder.
Or did she find someone that grounded her
without her making her crazy
(how boring but also enticing).
I try and reason it out
but the horn interrupts my
every thought.
We hurtle through the nascent autumn night,
moving too-fast yet arriving too-late,
a reverse-quote where
the destination makes the
journey bearable.
I silently thank the woman beside me,
who didn’t mind that I was in the wrong seat.
“You can have the window,” she says –
an unexpected gift that offers
a pane to lean on, and
trails of red leaves with wisps of lake,
and the halo of a sunset that
can’t be captured
through the window film.
She's Come Undone 