At 9:30 in the morning, the Light Rail in Illinois is not crowded. He rides backwards out to Scott Air Force Base. The day is blue skies, green fields. Something like kudzu grows out at the treeline near Fairview. The conductor’s voice is crisp through the speakers. At Belleville, peeling old A-frame houses crowd a hill near the station. He likes subway maps, train maps, the straight lines, the blue and red squares. Inbound, outbound.
Almost everyone gets off at the stop for SWIC. Some have backpacks, suitcases on rollers. Some are empty-handed. He likes to think the ones that don’t carry a bag have a pencil tucked into a pocket, a piece of paper folded up somewhere, but maybe not. Maybe they ride the train and get off and walk though parking lots into a classroom and sit and listen for fifty minutes and leave and get back on the train. Taking words back into the day. Ideas. Nobody can stop you from hearing. Nobody can still a voice in your mind. Inbound.
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