In trains I look at faces:
Young women, self-contained, unconnected
With people sitting next or opposite.
Bereft of make-up
They travel with the train
As though between stations in their lives.
Old women are different.
They have seen too much of human kind
And now cannot sit in silence:
they talk
and they talk.....
The cracks in their yellowed skin
Tell of the time when their young bodies
Stalked crater-torn streets
Too soiled to wonder
Where their womanhood had gone
or why.
Author notes
Written January 14th, 2005
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