IÂ’m a train riding soul sista
a train riding soul searcher.
Screening the tunnel walls for graffiti answers
to the questions I ask with my tilting eyebrows,
And I sit in the plastic curves of the dark
with the secret smile of Mona Lisa
and a yearning to find someone with paper cuts like mine.

The shadowed five oÂ’clock-people will disappear.
as we cling to the cookiecutter metal,
and the trainÂ’s halt throws us out of body.
In the moment we have the same lingering glare

I stop moving, the train keeps going
And at first IÂ’m confused, asking- why didnÂ’t I move too?
Where is the metal, the plastic comfort, their accusing stare, and thunder breath?

Then, the woman with eyes too dead to ask questions
and hands to tattered to grip the iron certainty—
She taps me on the shoulder.
That woman with a plastic-bag skirt and heaving stomachÂ…
whispers in my ear-
“You were never on the train. You’ve been here for years.
I am a train riding soul searcher too. If we get lost, we never move”

11/08/2002

Posted on 11/08/2002
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