35,
and on a train
two bags beside him,
all his belongs; his life
stuffed into it
Seated – paralleled
from me
35
and he’s lost
a lingering spirit tells
surrounding
and un-expunged
He holds his face away;
no grace in it, he smokes
a pack a day
even more, if he’s pockets are full
Where are you heading young sir?
He asks me, when I am not watching
but staring into my phone
The next stop is my stop, I respond
and you?
Don’t know, he says amused
35
and lost, still
Then; there, when the train stops
He gets off
I too
He asks my age, 21;
I tell him, and you sir?
35.
Oh?
I say;
We’re the same age,
young sir