is what I'm thinking
after seeing him cooly sidle
toward the platform this Saturday morning while I panicking rush past,
anxious for my first time
not to miss the 'yuppie train'
from the far end of the track,
before it gets too yuppie.
My first time catching the train
From my new neighborhood, new
apartment Eight weeks since
I left my husband's--our--house-home,
and my mind stopped
aching every night.
I'll use him as my mark
to measure whether I should run
to catch the inbound, or whether
I can hurry less and more enjoy
this April breeze. He's a beefy white guy
jeans sneakers black cap.
It's obvious he knows
the schedule.
I'm swaying side to side
train-waiting in the sun, and
I wonder if people think I'm pregnant,
rocking my unborn baby.
So I sit down.
I think "does my pink skin
burn at 8am already?"
Train whistle intermittent interrupts
my continued musings: I have a few habits this Spring.
Six or so leftover from Winter,
like sleeping too much, and dosing
my meds myself. Another five
bad habits sneaked in
through all those failures--
halfhearted Lenten promises of reform,
where Easter's vigil
voyeured my cigarette smoking
hope for relief of this constant pressure
to be good.
My fingers smell like grass, weed
I bought off my new lover's roommate
and rolled into a joint smoked on my way
downtown:
Saturday city college class.
Rockwell brownline train snorts up and
at the Addison stop this preppy dude
sits next to me and fingers the facebook app
on his iPhone with deaf toned music
annoyingly loud. He gets off
at Chicago and throws me a "goodbye!"
I wasn't expecting.
I remember my Mamá
is visiting next month for one week
and she agreed to stay with me.
I hope my dreams don't get too loud then,
these recurring, murmuring, secreted scenes
in which
my mind unravels
and I wake up shaking.
But I just heard the Lake Street stop
announced (doors open on
the right), I know
its time to go.
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