the daily commute

Best not to think of yourself on these days. Or, best not to think of yourself in the way you usually do -- obsessively, without pause, as a capturable thing. Best instead to say hey now, or hey there, or to wonder instead -- why was the man on the train, the man who came in with bushy beard and untrimmed dirt-rimmed nails, the man who was so good at mimicking the robot conductor's voice (Neeext stop. Bowling Green. Please stand away from the..., please stand away from the...), why couldn't he say doors? Because he was leaning in so close you see, to the people around him. And he was not foul odored exactly, but he was ripe with something other than clean. Strong. Musky, a grandfather might say. Musky for sure. But he was not gone, not totally mad. He was aware of his body, the space he took, and it was more than necessary, but not enough to drive them off. Instead he hovered close and no one shied away. They only worried, when will he move that next step, how close will he get, where will I move to. But it never came to that. (Next stop, waaaall street. Stand clear of the . . .) He was close and they shared that space, him and the girl, him and the other man, him and the self-contained pre-teen child. They shared it all, uncomfortably close, but not so awkward, not so awful come to think of it. Not so bad, to stand close to another human being, musky and warm, in the morning.