The Train
POTD 25 Nov 2020
Manage your Stress … a peeling faded poster boldly declares
I do get it about advertising campaigns.
Enough to know that,
‘strategically placed ads’ catching the eye, is huge.
But this poster has seen better days ~
There’s nothing that screams out anymore.
So good luck with that!
The ‘illuminated little screen’,
holds higher precedence
than one’s state of mind these days anyway.
Though, just to prove that some in the world,
share more to the eye than fixed texts on small screens
I jot down the website.
Grating metal to metal interaction,
In its customary ten minutes late ~ ‘don’t care a hoot’ style -
the train screeches in.
Beats me why they call it the 4:15
when it always, ALWAYS gets in at 4:25
I shuffle forward.
Shoulder to shoulder, limb to limb.
I’m too hot and weary to care.
All I can think of is getting home
in time to cook dinner for the kids.
What can I serve up tonight
That won’t be greeted with…
“Oh man, not this again”
The train, packed as always
and no one looks up.
Downturned faces
Feigned indifference?
Eye contact ... a thing of the past!
I find myself wedged in between an intellectual looking
young woman on my right,
Student of Psychology or Bio Med Science?
The young guy on my left is fast asleep
Japanese most probably.
They and ONLY THEY seem
to have mastered the art of sleeping on their feet.
The train lurches off with almost human like groans.
Seems to be in a temperamental state lately ~ Menopause?
My nostrils adjust to the assault of usual odours.
Some nice, mixed with the not so nice,
sweat, moist ~ who knows what?
Wet dog?
I settle in, brace myself,
to the half hour stretch ahead
The man behind me
is standing close enough
to moisten the back of my neck
with his hot steamy breath.
Was there ever a time when this
old Rattler’s air conditioning worked?
I glance at the Japanese man
yes, very much in a deep sleep.
Wondering if I too can adapt this method
I close my eyes.
The train gaining momentum -
rounds a corner sharply -
I fall backward into the man behind me.
Before I can turn around to apologize,
A hand comes out to steady me
settling on my hipbone.
Strangely enough it remains there
And I let it
My heart races
feeling something surreal
a feeling
I’ve never known to be so real.
Intimate in this oddity
I allow myself to stay,
In an unspoken serenity
relaxing back ever so gently
time crawls to a halt as
an old familiar fragrance assails me ~
Encapsulates me
My senses in overdrive
as embedded memories surface
And hover back to
that one day
Boarding this very train
Squeals of joy
As cloudbursts unleased their rain
Squeezing into one seat
Wrists caressed and kissed
Floating to that intimate space
Sensual lips tasted
Whispered promises
elicited
sparking bright eyes
And blushing rosy face
Softly against my ear a hum
Our song
Breathless on the high line
Us ~ giggling teens
fingers daring to trace
burning paths
through shredded threads
in faded jeans
The train hooted in joy
as we sped through fields of wild flowers
sparkling like diamonds with the fallen showers
Through the rain splattered window
Mesmerised by the candy coloured rainbow
coy behind fairy floss clouds
and shimmering sunbeams
through love’s rose-coloured spectacles
we gazed
Independent to the confinement
of time
Enamoured in each other
Audacious and unbridled joy
lacing into a languageless
connection
no words dare define
The thrill of
First Love
No high jacking of poetic
sugar dusted expressions
can possibly convey
the experiential feeling
that soars ~ way beyond words of it
I feel if I tried
It would,
It possibly could,
fall into overt descriptions
that seem to have squeaky boots
I have this incessant need to turn around
His steamy breath has caused little droplets
of perspiration to run down my neck
But before I do
the train lurches forward
then shudders to a grinding halt.
My nose buries into a mouldy smelling
brown suit in front.
A voice muffled says something
What???
Oh, my goodness!
My stop???
Blinding tears surprise me at first,
I rudely push past the other commuters.
Before I step off, curiosity gets the better of me
I can’t resist ~ I look back.
He’s looking down at his mobile
Smiling ~ perhaps humming
to some old tune on You Tube?
Ruddy faced and flushed
middle aged and sweaty.
His hand now stabilising himself
on the person in front of him.
They say Time heals all wounds
Try telling that to a heart
that has been shattered
In a million fragments
Try telling a heart in denial that
dead men don’t wear cologne!
Let alone hum tunes.
The deepest attachment
is to your own way of thinking
and feeling
That’s where the trap is…
~ Sadh guru ~
POTD 25 Nov 2020
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2020
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