My wife Lynda and I both enjoy writing poetry. Before I retired I traveled a great deal, sometimes away for weeks at a time. Some evenings we would share partially finished work and invite the other to expand on, revise, or take the piece in an entirely new direction. It has been a while since we’ve shared this kind of exchange. However, a couple of nights ago I had an itch to write something about riding a commuter train. The one I had in mind was from Rye, NY to Grand Central Station. I rode this train mostly as a kid but my father commuted to “the City” every day so I had some appreciation for the grind of the daily commute. I will also say that “grind” is more applicable to the underground commute I had from Holborn to Marlybone station while living in London. Having your nose mashed up against your neighbors armpit was much more of a grind.
But public transport, when not quite so close, offers the occasion to let your mind wander, to people watch, and wonder about the stories that surround you.
The poem below was a fun collaboration between Lynda and myself.
Hope you enjoy.
I.
It is the backs of heads that roll side to side
in unison, like dancers,
to the rhythm of the rocking train,
the gentle sway of our silent car—
a metronome for the weary,
lulling some to sleep while
others fight the impulse,
clutching a phone, a book, a laptop.
Some simply stare ahead, inviting me to divine their thoughts.
Below our stop, the din of insistent commerce goes unnoticed:
hurried taxis gathering fares,
a vendor eyeing the passers-by, his table of sunglasses
neatly displayed in rows
unsuited to this dreary afternoon,
and the crowded sidewalk of brisk walkers
moving as a single organism.
Above, we have taken on and given up cargo.
The door between cars snaps shut
and all absorb the brief rustle of the newly boarded—
a coat shed, a settling,
and we roll.
Tired brick buildings slide past,
their fire escapes festooned
with plants and laundry,
the small domestics of other lives.
We are occasional observers—
passengers and apartment dwellers
curious one moment,
indifferent the next to the blur we become.
There is a woman in a window,
elbows on the sill,
hands cradling her chin.
A green scarf covers her head—
a welcome splash of color,
a painting half-remembered.
Did our eyes meet?
That flicker, that almost—
the wondering about the life not ours,
the story we will never finish reading.
The building is an advent calendar of windows to be opened, each with some sumptuous story
to tease the imagination,
each now a blur and gone
before the story can begin.
The train labors forward—
de-tunk, de-tunk.
An unexpected tunnel,
its entrance inches from my face
resting against the window.
Startled—
the plunge into darkness.
Commuters silently swaying.
A man in a suit abruptly folds his newspaper.
His seatmate stirs.
Then the breath of strangers quiets again
in the ghostly fluorescent light—
rocking, swaying, dozing.
De-tunk, de-tunk, de-tunk.
Emerging from darkness, daylight assaults and indifferent to our state
Momentarily wakens some who quickly drift off again.
I stare out the window which frames only
the sumac, seedling volunteers and shrubs that line the tracks—
I finally release myself to the spell
Of the train’s gentle sway
Eyelids heavy
As I wonder in that pleasant space between waking and sleep about the
Window with the woman in it
The woman wearing the green bandana.
I smile at how silly I am to believe that she saw me but
I wonder
as the train
The rocking train
Hurries us home.
II
A long night with no dreams,
rocking to and fro this tiny child
who will not sleep.
At dawn he sleeps, and so do I,
through the noise of trains —
de-tunk, de-tunk —
Finally awake, this late afternoon.
Another day lost to his sleepless night,
and his sleep, this day,
affords a shower, a coffee.
No time to tend myself —
my face, my hair —
except to tie a bright green bandana
so the slick strands can contain
my long night,
my weary thoughts of journeying somewhere
with the train that passes by.
III
It is the dab of green
on a colorless palette
that directs my gaze to the window,
the woman there.
Scanning the unattended brick facing the tracks,
I believe secret stories
leak from open windows —
I have yet to capture them all.
Not for lack of trying.
I ride the 5:15 every day,
window seat, left side,
a student of story,
an eagle’s eye
fixed on the woman in the window —
seconds only to grasp a life at speed.
A smudge of green,
and below, hands cradling her chin,
fingers tracing the lines of her jaw,
elbows resting on the sill.
She looks forlorn —
until, I imagine,
her eyes find mine.
I raise my hand.
Did the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly?
I fear she remained motionless,
vanishing behind the train.
Day upon day the green bandana
alerts me to her presence.
We surely are exchanging looks across the tracks,
across the distance that separates us.
I have imagined her eyes —
lonely but striking.
Green, of course.
I believe in a remarkable connection.
Still, the hand I always raise
remains unanswered.
Such kindness ignored
wounds but does not extinguish
the anticipation.
Before the five o’clock hour
I am first to board,
to claim the window seat
where we shall briefly meet.
The boredom of a glum commute
now become a whirlwind
journey of hope and despair —
Praying that one small gesture,
her hand simply raised,
would heal what has
metastasized into what lies
beyond my comprehension:
this ache,
this hand alone
pressing the glass
Has devoured me.
Something to Say 