on the train

you wait for
the train,
it's what you do
this time of day,
early morning,
with the sun low
and barely
coming through
the station windows.
a briefcase is in
your hand,
perhaps a cup
of coffee,
the paper
holding yesterday's
news. you may
nod to those
you recognize from
all the months of
riding on the same
line. sometimes it's
raining and you
mention that,
or if it's cold,
or the humidity has
already gotten under
your suit, you talk
about that, but not
too much. it's the
train, that's all.
life and death will
follow, but none of
them will know, or
care or look for you
when you are gone,
and you'll do likewise.