Poetry is available during the homeward commute.
Perhaps it is that I, motion-sick, lean
the corner of my forehead against the curve
of the train windowpane;
could be the electricity from the third rail
whirring through the car's body,
whispering in between clumsy lurches.
The hard plastic wall digs into my head,
compelling me to readjust
(I must write this down)
and it is lost.
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