He sits nestled between the window and two harried businessmen,
Sunk into an uncomfortable beige chair
One foot planted atop the heating vent on the wall
A half-read book open in his lap,
Perused only by shut eyelids.
The salesman across the aisle is closing the day’s last deal
Which transpires here because
The children expect him at 6.
The woman behind him animatedly explicates impending adventures
to her seat-mate.
And a man with serene but exhausted comportment
Gazes fondly, silently
At no one in particular.
But our friend, couched in the warm sunlight of his wall of glass
Is napping insistently,
Head bobbing up and down, up
Tuning his ears only to the ceiling’s bold double tone
And the conductor’s scratchy call,
Eventually the voice in the roof will name this man’s little town,
The intermittent nonsense of his dreams will cease,
The blindly-read book will close,
And the uncomfortable sunlit perch will discharge its occupant,
Who will descend groggily to the platform and watch
As the train roars away.