Tracks
It smells like metal. Well, it is metal. There’s a lady standing near the tracks. She’s got a dog on a leash with her. Man, she looks sad. Like old lady sad, that type of sad that leaves your mouth dry. Even the dog looks sad. Smells cold. Is it the rust that smells cold? No-no-no the breeze makes it cold. I think it’s just the metal. I turn to block out the wind at an angle. It doesn’t work. At the other end of the platform there’s a mime working for tips. I wonder what he wanted to be when he was a kid. He pantomimes climbing a mountain. No wait, I think he’s pretending to be Batman. Not creative, but impressive. He stares at me, expecting money. Fuck him. He doesn’t own the place. It’s not my fault my eyes travel to motion. That metal. It smells like a pile of unwashed dishes. The lady and her dog are on the other side, watching the mime. She gives up a dollar in goodwill. How pointless. A dollar changes nothing, and goodwill’s as useless as being able to pantomime. They remind me of myself. The mime with his failed dreams and lost ambition. The lady trapped in loneliness and despair. I swear the metal is piercing my brain.
