The watch seemed to leap from the wall,
a strange artifice, as if it existed beyond time.

The two young men barely peeking into adulthood,
nodded in silence.

Their jeans, in style, only suit a lucky few.
Their calm amplified their presence.

Their songs were quests 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— the overwhelming weight of her chats.

She mentioned interrupting her mother’s interview
on a zoom call, never pausing to catch a breath,

never granting her mother a word. Her mother
had picked up only after ignoring five calls before.

Now I understand why the old man beside her,
fled in a hurry, choosing a peaceful seat for himself

and his book. I took his seat and continued the poem
I had begun on the previous train.

The clock hung on my office wall. The boys rode the green line.
The girl and the old man were on the red line.

In between, I read an interview with a contemporary poet
and looked up poems by another long gone.

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