TrainWrite

Out of Town

by Zach Fishel

Conductor’s note: The following is the second in a series of poems from the same trip, at the same station, in different parts. Return to TrainWrite on Friday for the final leg of the journey.

I’m at the train stop. I forgot my headphones so

I am dreading the sounds

I am about to hear. The woman wheezing receiving

judgment from the other overnight bus riders who can’t sleep

over her gasping to keep alive,

they should turn up their headphones. Then there is always the child,

wailing for no apparent reason

except they are loved too much,

too comforted.

The hobos align the gateway to board,

several with patched up coats from the local Salvation Army

are handing out Bible pamphlets for the

promise of hot coffee and cakes in the morning.

It’s cold, some are asking for bread now.

Some want a short end of a cigarette; the wheezing lady isn’t giving any up.

I hand two to a man calling himself Stubs.

His fingers nearly all amputated from what I

assume were once frostbitten ends.

He tells me a riddle for the cigarettes; the riddle is a good one.

We laugh about it as I board.

The seats are hard molded plastic like the

kisses from my ex. Made for all.

Constant noses snuffing,

mild coughing spasms from other college kids,

or old men,

gurgle like broken toilets all the way around the train.

I try to turn over but a fat woman with large

breasts is cramming me into the window.

She is dark, her long straight hair climbing

like a parasite over my bag,

my shoulder

her face, as she snorts into slumber.

I want to unwrap my turkey sandwich and eat now.

Sometimes feeling full makes you want to sleep.

I know that I haven’t been fed in three days,

so the grumbling will gnaw with the rest of the noises,

combining with the engine to a low roar.

I like it and try putting it in a notebook with an

old pen I most likely found on someone’s floor.

I always pick up things that are dirty.

Too many people complain on phones,

as we drive through the night, about the hassles of

packing and double checking ticket times and carry-ons.

They should just be thankful they get to be

somewhere else for a minute.

Zach Fishel is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee and a graduate student at the University of Toledo, where he is working toward an M.A. in Literature. His work has appeared most recently or is forthcoming in madswirl, Fourletterwords, Nickel Beer Night Poetry, and others. He thinks that sometimes boredom is a poison, and his only speed is go.

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