In Transit

Falling asleep on a train sounds like we're in a washing
machine, a spin cycle, shaking and shuttering. I open
my eyes, people in blue and red jerseys. Secaucus. Forty
minutes until metro station, double that until home. New
Jersey Transit and its blue and purple chairs. Always picking
the seat with no window. If I look ahead, vanilla and red
lights are scattered on the outside of our train. Without
my glasses, they look like fireworks. Inside, hands and legs
are crossed, but the hand on my lap is not the one that's on
my mind. Still, we sit reading advertisements and other signs,
trying to take notes on the best ways to travel, to live
our lives according to the stock market alternatives and
deli meats and dating websites and Con Edison. Ads telling
me to freeze my eggs so I can have children as a geriatric and
kindly reminding me to take my trash with me when
I'm at my stop, when I'm ready to leave.

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