From the train window as we arrive, one man
leans against tile, and peels a banana.
The doors slide, with seconds to resettle, depart, or stay
and he doesn’t see us, only the sudden metal shape
of our arrival. But from here, I realize: I know how that tastes.
The soft, the distant bitter, the sound of the peel tear
to rest cool and limp. I can’t say where he placed
the flimsy oval sticker, or when this morning
he stuck this in his bag thinking, I’ll need this later.
I don’t know where he bought his clothes
whose collar bone he has coveted, his signature joke
and can only barely imagine his hair matted down
with sweat in a dim eggshell room.
But I have felt tile against my back in a station.
And I too have failed to consider the scrutiny
of passengers within the trains
pulling up before me.