You stand near the train at the edge of a new half-life,
wear the hopeful dress of just-in-case
with platform heels and Gucci bag,
melt into the shadows,
sport Dolce and Gabbana shades
so as to travel incognito,
not realizing you are already invisible to everyone
but the man who sits behind you,
traveling only by coach.
Your black leather gloves lend a sinisterial air,
suggesting a hint of dark sophistication
mixed with absolute power,
every man’s lover, nobody’s fool,
makes me wonder where you’re going.
What questions do you ask?
You turn your head at precisely seventeen degrees,
angle acutely, reaching back into
tomorrow’s news, reckless and seductive,
pulling out all the answers.
Where is your baggage?
Can the wind respond to your various
provocations? And is this the time of year
when the train keeps no secrets,
calling out the seasons until the final whistle
turns cold, sliding until blindness?