Are the flowers carefully cradled in his hand,
so as to not damage the pure white petals.
His wrinkled gaze wanders its way out of the weathered window.
I know nothing of him except what I can plainly see.
In my head, I imagine his life outside the train.
He is on his way home to his wife, on their anniversary
and he is surprising her. He will hobble over to her chair,
accidentally frightening her. She will lean over and hug him tightly,
and he will pull one arm from behind his back, handing her the flowers.
The train halts and I am forced to snap back to reality.
The man has gathered his belongings,
slowly making his way towards the exit.
An elderly woman greets him and he pulls out the
Daisies.