-Any town through-

The train from Boston to New York

And points south to the Carolinas is frantic

With activity when it stops for passengers

In New Haven.

Eastern Connecticut is densely populated,

Its morning commuters filling the seats

And the deeper into Connecticut we travel,

It inserts itself more aggressively

Into the coaches of Amtrak —

A swarming populous moving in two directions,
Forward on the aisles, yet backward as the train runs forward
In a practical proof of the laws of motion,

Its timeworn briefcases, impossible earphones,

Its satchels and laptops glowing once-bitten

Apples at their lids.

Some are dressed, prepped for their cubicles,

Others seem transported from the heavy-handed, stone-

Grey coaches of Daumier.

The middle-aged woman sweats heavily.

She pants through her open mouth,

Struggles with her heavy suitcase perched

At a right angle to her wide girth,

Looking for an invitation to invade a space.

I try not to present an open opportunity

But she moves onward anyway

Over the narrow aisle now packed like the fatal

Chute in the bowels of slaughtering Chicago.

Connecticut assigns itself to the coaches.

From the seat in front of me, a young woman is sleeping.

Her head rests on a traveling pillow

Tucked at the window

Facing the depot's crowded platform.

Her auburn hair is shimmering in the sunlight

And it falls through the narrow space

Between the window and the seat-back.

She was sleeping when I boarded in Providence

And a glance at the open seat next to her

Revealed a transparent dry cleaner's bag protecting

What seems to be a black, cocktail-type dress

And next to it, a bloated tote, silkscreened

With a logo indicating

She’s a student at Brandeis University.

Maybe she lives in Connecticut and commutes

From Boston on the long weekends. 

Maybe she lives in New York

And travels home from Boston less frequently.

But the train goes down to the Carolinas.

I don’t see luggage packed for a long stay.

It could be she lives in North Carolina.

But it’s Thursday and she should be attending classes.
Maybe the last quarter before summer break has ended.
But nothing around her appears to be permanent.

A blade of moving sunlight sharpens her hair

As the train pulls out of Stamford

With a forward jolt which wakes her up.

She drinks water from a bottle.
She searches through her tote for something
But I can't see what it is she's looking for.

The train is running fast and true.
My seat-back is adjusted, positioned for rest.
I return to the dress, the black dress
Laid-out on the seat beside her,

The only garment drawing my attention

As I boarded the coach and took the seat

Behind her as she sat sleeping.
I think this is the dress she's chosen to wear.

I think that someone loved has died.

I think she’s on a fast track to a solemn event.

But as it is, in a way, so am I.

                                    On the rails to "Billy Budd",

                                    The Metropolitan Opera, 5/10/12