The wristwatch leaps from a wall
as a strange artifice.
It lives outside its time.
The two young men
barely peeking into adulthood
rock their heads
in silence. Their jeans are of a style
that suits a lucky few.
Their menacing calm amplifies
their presence. The lyrics
of their songs are a quest
to restore losses.
The talkative girl in front of me
is fired up, on a mission
to force ideas on us all
through uncompromising energy,
self assurance — a longing
or faith in the weight of her topics.
She talks about crashing her mom’s interview
while on speaker, never stopping
to catch her breath, to allow her mother a word.
The mom only picked up the office phone
after ignoring five consecutive calls to her cell.
Now I know why the old man left in a hurry
looking for a peaceful seat
to house him and his book.
I took his seat and continued writing
the poem I started on the last train.
The clock was on my office wall.
The guys were on the green line.
The girl and the old man on the red line.
In between I read an interview with
a contemporary poet and looked up
poems by one of the greats
who had been long gone.
My wife and son will pick me up
at the end of the line.