Intersect
© Laura Craig Mason 2002

He rides the trains to forget
his girlfriend gone in Israel;
that beloved day in the city
that dared to fall down
that doggedly turned in.

He rides the trains listening to
dead men
and fallen stars
trying to forget a
friend's muted words
and blank stares.
He's riding the train
trying to connect
with something new

She rode the train
as a means of transportation,
nothing so esoteric as
mental meditation
just something more mundane
like getting to the job;
like getting home.

Easy as an algebra equation
their lives intersect
only the smiles and conversation
crashed and burned
when he talked about the buildings.

How can he forget it
when it keeps coming  up?
Why is he smiling
(she wonders)
when so much has gone wrong?

The train breaks ground
and suddenly
everything is bright:
the windows
the car
their faces.

For a minute everything seemed human again.
For a moment the interaction was bearable.

Back underground 
the train propels;
he gets louder
about his beloved day
and
about all he misses
and really
how he refuses to forget.
Park street
magically, his exit from
riding trains all day
his exit from the underground.


She rode the train
all the way home
unable to read
or observe the masses.
She spent all of her energy
just trying to forget.