Local

I climb aboard the surprisingly empty 8.43 local,
stand by the door with a copy of Seth's Mappings
and trickle through the dewy words, when the vocal
chords of my copassenger begin to quiver and he sings
a well-known ditty and then another by Rafi,
with a smile on his lips and a voice too scruffy.

I'm standing right beside him, drenched in a yellow
solace, weaving though Seth's balmy thoughts, knitting
some of my own verse, a rather honeyed glow
spreading within me, as I ponder over the befitting
mix of poetry and song, this moment's lilt
that serendipity had so painstakingly built.

I savour the minty aftertaste of this bubbled reverie
but we're both abashed by the rush of this brazen,
unintended warmth between strangers, when the blurry
din saves us. We go our separate ways from that haven
of metallic succour and corrugated sunbeams;
two succinct murderers of childhood dreams.