as the train rumbles and slopes
towards Washington Irving's land,
I wonder to myself how
Dale Chihuly moves his artwork.
this is a peculiar thought state,
a between thing of writers and wanderers.
the Spanish gals are good and loud,
a soundtrack for my quiet, dumb soul
and I watch them put on makeup
and wonder about their commuter lives,
going to and from the city
to get their kicks in white pants,
charging their phones beside me.
then the train honks its horn loud,
adding to the soundtrack,
breaking it and reminding me I am alive,
as I once again head back to the city,
back home to all the history.