18:19

Ruler marks across the country

scribbled lives and pencilled-in

faces, adjoining places

with families and names they don’t know.

They’ll just pass them through the window.

 

A snap-shot, no, scrapbook,

just quick visions of insight into

their person.

The clothes they wear, suitcase or phone

a face without a name 

A smile is enough. No longer alone. They too

rely on the tracks,

the vibrations move through them.

Through me.

 

We share the seats of strangers

suffocated by fumes and breaths

if no seats are free, free-

falling through the day to day.

Friday is Monday, of places you’ve passed

not been.

Not friends, strangers. Mutual lives

waiting for the

18:19.

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