Metro One

her hair curls more during humid days. she leaves her hair down on these days. there is always a rope of curls in her eyes. down to her chin. sometimes she takes a blond end into her mouth. when she thinks. she begins to put her hair back with a silver metal barettes but she isn't because she loves the way her hair moves today. tomorrow it may be back in a ponytail, but not today.

not today as we wait for the blue line train to take us from capitol hill south to dupont. her hair stays down even after the transfer. the ceiling, honeycomb arches, painted nicely in only some stations. for the pleasure of the policy makers. for the concrete arches turn dark with age. grimy. the formed rock takes the soot from long days and rubs it deep. the pale grey paint is ghoulish. unnatural like whitewashed brick or brownstone. an afterthought. bad design. Impossible to sand blast or scrub.

i sit with her waiting for the train. after coffee. lattes.

(she sits with her leg folded under her. or a knee pulled tight into her chest. her limbs are slender, she takes up no room at all. but once, years ago, i thought she was quite tall. when she walks her back is straight, her back arched. she bounds in spite of heavy oxfords and rugged jeans. rough fabric like husk protecting tender flesh. her lips have natural color contrasting with her smooth pale skin. i noticed these things years before. old news except for the navel ring. that is new news. leather jacket. an easy of movement. wire rimmed glasses.)

the metro came after a short while. it passed us as we at, my legs sprawled, knees apart; she sitting with legs under her. we stood and watched as the short train, only several cars, pulled way past us and we needed to walk a long way.

it made my hung mind clearer to spend time with her. to spend time outside on a winter day of 65 degrees. warm in jeans and a button down. walking under balmy skies. through eastern market. my head is throbbing. my throat is tight and i want to vomit and never smoke, never drink again. purge the toxins from my soul. from my body.

©1997 chris abraham