My disposition, heavy as my footsteps, leads me to the bus that delivers me to the train that is now holding me under.
The deceiving letters kidnapped my weary mind taking precedence over what was to be:
The 6:17 departure and 6:28 arrival has become an endless quest to rescue a runaway who wants the tracks to be his haven for awhile. Or forever.
I sit here, imagining waiting for my bus as I hold groceries from Trader Joes, contemplating whether or not wine is a good idea or something much stronger.
If the desperate lad is rescued — I will toast the life he was forced to reclaim with rum and coke.
It’s a quiet car with just the sounds of ear plugged tunes providing solace.
Outside, the demands from the powerful to the powerless to comply immediately and derail later grows more urgent.
Neon lights from the tunnel are blowing my direction and when I face the rays head on — I see the possibilities
What’s out there? Why am I in here, When I should be anywhere but here.
The voices are getting louder and still some of us are buried in phone work. The guy next to me is reading. The woman across from is sleeping. The man leaning against the doors is looking at me. I’m looking up now and staring back. But emptily. As if I’m trying to remember something. I am.
Shit. We’re evacuating. There are so many damn people.
We’re on the tracks.
Walking Tracks Walking Tracks Walking…
Entry. Movement. Air. Light. Arrival.
No service. Wait here. Leave here. Take bus. No.
Take this train. Going this way.
Arrival. Time? Too late.
The person responsible has vanished. I’m lost in mind and spirit.
Until the rum at 11:19 pm. The toast. The bed. And me.