Bay Street Station
by Christine Adams Beckett
The east and west-bound trains stand parallel to one another
As the evening reflects images of passengers
on the doubled glass:
New York-bound adventurers ghosting those
A faint double of teenagers, smooth faced and
Chirping about a boy band
Self-consciously bobs over an exhausted
Suit, seemingly dead but infantile and sweet
In his own unconsciousness.
The New York Times, belonging to the chaperone
Shrouds the flesh of a woman engrossed in her paperback.
An apparition in the glass hovers eerily
Over the West-bound man in an open collar, throwing his head back
In laughter. The woman seated next to him shines
Like a switch light, her own bobbing head kissing
The suggestion of another seated East bound,
Unaware of their intimate connection.
Each soul is a mystery yet all are governed
They travel in packs, sleep next to strangers
In isolation with a suggestion of connection.
One furrowed brow that lay cranked over a bow tie and tweed coat
Stares blankly out the window as the cars jerk to life.
He flattens his palm to the window, like a
Gesture of Peace,
Unclear if he reaches for the woman opposite him
Or the reflection of his own eyes.
Here can be found all-encompasing Goodness:
Of every lonely soul headed to the City for adventure
And every tired one seeking solace