You talk so much of busy trains,
the heat, the harsh florescent light
and how they fall upon the brain.
I would have thought that such a sight
would be a poet’s paradise —
the many varied histories,
the pointless pockets of a life
all written on the identities
of passenger faces. Each look
reveals another form of you
returning the gaze; and each nook
conceals the chance for something new.
But, perhaps, you only perceive
the busy train you want to leave.