Thursday, November 9, 2017

Commuter (Day 295)

remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 
and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 
and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 
collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 
a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 
of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 
got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 
at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 
travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 
parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

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