An old commuter train rounds a bend.
Some old train, rushing.

It’s your nighttime room, this dark rushing room. It rings in your ears, like now does, always with you. Look left, right, up, down, fresh paint, tangy and sticky smelling. There’s a window. There’s a door. There are clean sheets and someone’s breathing. There’s the birds outside with their song sometimes and beyond there’s the highway and it says hush like yesterday does. The cars go South in the morning toward the Town, and some go North to nowhere and the Field. Who can hear the difference? The north or south? Nobody can from up here.

You fill your kids’ lunch bags. You fill your wife’s. And you’re off. You go Lyft to the Station to the City. Get off. Get on. Smile pardon me. You’re on the train you hear at night when it whirrs like the future. In the morning when you’re on it, it roars like the present. It’s the difference. You can hear it on it or off it: whirrs or roars. It comes every 20 minutes in the morning, it goes every 20 minutes in the evening. If you hurry, you will catch it. If you hurry. You might. You could walk it. You would if you were still a light strong walker. You would. That’s the difference, hush, whirr, and roar.