Penn Bound

I always look to your window –
blurred with dirt as we depart abruptly.
Eyes disoriented
by the hazy platform view,
heart in my throat (yes, even now),
my hand slides nonchalantly
off your greasy pole
while I struggle to remain standing,
instead stumbling forward
ineptly.
You’re always greasy,
whether I go high or low,
a trick I learned from somewhere –
that if I must place my hands
on something,
let it be where the least
hands have been.
At least.
But I am at home
with all your grimy molecules;
the company is just fine.
This guy slumped in the corner here –
drooling whiskey
underneath the faded map –
he’ll be pressed against me in a few more minutes,
vying to squeeze past
through the door marked
TRACK 1
wide awake and refreshed by then.
I’ll let him by.
It’s the trip underground
– buried without dying – I love.
I don’t need a seat.