35,
and on a train
two bags beside him,
all his belongings; his life
stuffed into it
Sitting across from me
35 and he’s lost
He holds his face away;
no grace in it, he smokes
a pack a day
even more, if he’s pockets are full
Where are you heading young sir?
He asks me, when I am not watching
but staring into my phone
The next stop is my stop, I respond
And you?
Don’t know, he says amused
35 and lost, still
There; then, when the train stops
He gets off
He asks my age, 21;
I tell him; and you sir?
35
Oh?
We’re the same age then,
I say;
young sir
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