There But Not There

On the train you’re alone but not alone. You’re still, but moving. Everyone’s faces are composed, neutral. But you’re surrounded by stories. That elderly couple that got on at the hospital, each wearing dazzlingly new white sneakers. Not a scuff on them, shoelaces still crisp. You imagine them shopping together, trying on different pairs. But somebody’s sick. One of them is dying. We make our faces masks but everything about us suggests a narrative. That girl has a limp she’s trying to hide; you noticed it when she got off. The world is full of injury, but why does she try to hide it? Each step a reminder of what? You watch her walk down the platform towards the parking lot and then your train picks up speed and she’s gone, or you are. You are. You pull up your hoodie and press your shades up the bridge of your nose. Nobody’s getting in today. You’re there but not there. You’re gone.