HOW BOOKS ARE WRITTEN IN TRAIN STATIONS

Across the chasm

across this aisle

she reads a book

a big book

a book with a cover on it

the kind that leaves you totally unable to judge it.

She purses her lips as she reads

intrigued

informed

infernally interested in anything

that isn't me.

Across this moat of existence

she reads her book

and ignores me completely.

I wonder what she reads.

I want to read her

know what captures her so completely

research her book

get beneath her covers

and� learn.

This

this instant of attempted detection

discovery

dire desire to ascertain understanding

this is why epics are sung

why poems are composed

why books are written.

This moment

is why we are

who we are.

Me, anyway.

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