on the train

Guest Ride: I Married A Dead Woman

He stood 2 inches taller than I, skinny and aged. Skin that clung to his cheekbones and eyes but not to his lips intensified this mans presence and made the thought of him in a heated debate beyond frightening. He bumbled around a pole fidgeting, visibly anxious or annoyed, fishing in pockets and backpack. A scar/branding on his right inner forearm added more to this mans mystique. His tight eyes kept darting and with a notable “Harumph” he flung his back to me and began scribbling, shoulders hunched forward as if this cocooned him from the other riders. It did. At least from me.

Entering my stop, I had just about forgotten about him until the train braked, scratched metal, jerking it’s passengers forward.

Against the pole, he straightened his body and assembled his gangly balance amongst other train goers. His left arm wrapped high around the pole, almost over his own head, and held the notepad he was writing on.

A note pad with scribbles, scratched out lines, all in blue pen revealed he was writing poetry. I could only make out the first line until the train stopped, offering me my intended stop. In just 2 seconds, this man made more sense to me somehow. I wish I knew him and wish I could read more of his poetry.

The 1 line read: “I married a dead woman.”

— author: LRJ