The train stumbles along a bridge overlooking
dingy tawny apartment complexes, and from
my perch I can see
a boy, tan and crouched over a box of tangled grass and flowers,
cerulean shirt stained with sweat, back facing
the windows. If I take a
step, I could crush those weeds he is painstakingly uprooting. I wonder
why he is outside without a hat, hair matted to
his head. I wonder
if I scribble some words, pencil moving over
the surface as emotions cascade,
tear up this sheet of paper into a ball
and, like an arrow, aim it toward him –
would he pivot and
catch it with one hand, shoot the blue sky a
contemptuous look, bones immune to the impact
sticks and stones?
Never mind,
he is simply too far away. No matter how hard
I try, I cannot
open the window, and besides, the train is
moving again –
the boy in the T-shirt a streak of cerulean,
the garden a blur of green.
It takes a long time for me to arrive at my train station, but not very long
to depart.