Sitting across the man-the skinny one with the cheap shoes-who hops on the train exactly at 5:02. The stop is near the starting point, so he is on time, like the driver who is anxious to get rid of us all and settle like a beloved blanket in front of his television.
Clearing my throat. Saying to the guy, as he stands, “Your eyes are clear and cold. Wish you could take that and spread it, share it with some of the guys I know.”
He is startled then amused. As the train leaves him on the platform, his eyes warm, a just bit, in his confusion.
Later, I think of him. As the lamb loses its hold on the present and crosses over into stillness, it screams.
I wonder if my eyes are as cold as his, that man on train, with life spilling past my fingers, leaving puddles of memories and dreams. Or confused, as the blood and stink burn my nose.