NaPo #30: Metro


And he sat down on the edge of my jacket,
then looked at me startled when I tugged it out,
the drag of the zipper odd under his khakied thigh.

And then I looked up and his eyes were like does’
and lashes like the edges of burring jimson weed
seed pods but beautiful instead of alien.

And then I was the startled one and said
sorry. And he flinched away from my startlement.
And the Metro driver saved us by stopping

at the next stop and ordering us all out
of the train. And I did not think of him again
until now. And the burr of that fear clings to me.

And I wonder how I frightened him with me
and my middle aged dumpiness and he
young and able to destroy me with a fist.
And his eyes were brown.

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