Winged
They lied.
Tokyo is not as crowded as people think.
I rode my last subway on Friday at 1:30 PM;
I was alone on that train.
Sixteen years old, half the world away from home,
An entrepreneur.
Two months before, I had said,
“If there is one place in this world I’ll never see, That would be Japan.”
Yet, as I arrived at Musashifujisawa Station,
And began to dig for the key to my home-stay house
I realized, I had made it.
As the train rattled on,
I observed the city I was leaving, and I remembered
Standing on the peak of Mt. Fuji:
At that moment, too, I had been thinking: I made it.
My ripped muscles and collapsed lungs,
Worth every painful step, To reach the heaven, Above the clouds.
Despite all odds, defiant of reality, I had said
I can make it.
And I did.
The train picked up speed, and we flew
Out of the city and into the suburbs,
And in the dirty window across,
Above the deserted, orange seats,
I saw my reflection: I had wings.
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