on the green line train (Day 15)

(Day 15–Halfway through National Poetry Writing Month.)

The girl sitting across from me

on the green line train

has a rip along the seam

of her skirt.  Loose threads 

jut out from the damage.  She

sits, reading a Nora Roberts 

novel, and I try to catch her 

eye, to make her aware in case

she isn’t, in case there’s some

corporate function in her 

near future.  We are the only two 

people in this car, so she wouldn’t 

have to be embarrassed, and besides

I think she’s kinda pretty, with her

tortoiseshell reading glasses and

the slightly pouty lips below that, 

and maybe she’s lonely like me

because why is she on the metro

alone at this hour if she has even 

one friend?  “Miss,” I say. “Miss, excuse

me, but I couldn’t help but notice

that you have a tear in your skirt

and I thought you might want to

know that if you don’t already.”  And

then she looks up and squints a bit in

my direction, sizing me up before 

returning to her paperback.  She sighs

like my mother used to when she finally

plopped into her recliner with a tumbler

of Scotch and didn’t want to hear from

me again that night.  “Okay girl,” I tell

her, “I was just saying.”  The woman 

does not look up but simply says

“I have pepper spray and I will use it.” 

 

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About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
This entry was posted in despair, fear, NaPoWriMo, people, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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