the windows of the train are cloudy:
scratches and water stains blur the surface—it’s
just like watching an old television, except there
are no dials or rabbit ears to enhance the picture.
the sun rises over small, imperfect dollhouses,
miniature traffic lights, Hot Wheels that speed away.
a world beyond the view, but under the same skies
and the same god, who watches me the same way I
watch the woman in white. she waits willfully
at the station, squinting at her cell phone. I imagine
she’s reading Camus or Kierkegaard, or something
else philosophical, or meaningful, or curious.
are she and I both playing hide-and-seek,
inconspicuous and all the while pursuing something
or someone barely there? are we skipping
stones, counting the rings, and wondering—
where is the magic? (is it within the world around
us or in our own insignificant, untamed hands?)
when she looks at the train with searching eyes, I
wonder if she sees me: my watery eyes, my
chapped lips, and my necklace,
a cross from my mother.
Katie Rotella is an amateur poet and a full time project manager. When she's not setting deadlines, she's trying to meet them herself.
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