The Ride Home

The wristwatch leaped from a wall as a strange artifice,
as if it lived outside its time.

The two young men barely peeking into adulthood
rocked their heads in silence.

Their jeans were of a style that suited a lucky few.
Their menacing calm amplified their presence.

The lyrics of their songs were a quest to restore losses.
The talkative girl in front of me was 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 talked about crashing her mom’s interview
while on speakerphone, never stopping to catch her breath,

to allow her mother a word. The mom had only picked up
after having ignored five prior, consecutive calls.

Now I know why the old man, who was sitting next to her,
left in a hurry, choosing a peaceful seat to house him and his

book. I took his seat and continued writing my poem
that I had started on the previous train.

The clock was on my office wall. The guys 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, long ago gone.

My wife and son will pick me up at the end of the line.

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