Squeezing between a stranger and his B.O.,
I reached around for a spot on the silver pole
sustaining me as we headed for the countryside.
It kept getting poorer out there.
I wanted to make a donation
but I couldn’t reach my back pocket
without giving up my spot.
I always hated watching things pass me;
it made me nervous knowing how far we’d gone.
So I stood facing the back where I could
watch the scenery in reverse and see if
it matched up with the easy jazz
playing through overhead speakers.
I saw lots of faces that way too,
but I think more of them saw
me,
trying to make eye contact with myself.
It seemed like we were nowhere
that had a name,
just some place that only existed
because it was between two dots
or on some black line.
And that’s fine with me;
I don’t need a name either.
Behind me, a Spanish couple was arguing
about the death penalty and
I thought how funny it was
that ‘penalty’ made it sound like a game show.
I love game shows.
Then I turned back around and
scurried to the exit.
I kicked down one of the doors
and jumped off the train into a dry ravine.
It was the only thing I’ve ever done.
It was my first self-portrait.
