.

Across the Aisle

I
The man in the seat across
the narrow aisle
has propped one leg
over the other,
and on his elevated knee
he has placed in a balancing act
a notebook with many pages,
some empty and some half empty
and some half full,
and I spy diagrams
and VSEPR
and chemical equations
going about their work
in the careful, painfully
practiced strokes of the pen—
boring and black, by my
reckoning—
and the face is spotted
with drawings and words
and his face is dotted with
light freckles of a sunny origin,
and the shoes are red with a
spiky white stripe that
splits like a leather delta,
and the head is curly
in an unkempt sort of way,
leaning with a sigh
against the train window as
scenery slides past.

II
The couple in the pew across
the stony aisle
have clasped hands fondly;
heads are titled to touch
gently and comfortably;
eyes are trained on the seated
couple before us all;
feet are stuffed with pomp
and circumstance—
with deliberation and
hurried glances into mirrors—
into stiff and shiny shoes;
knees are knocked together,
as thick as thieves
clothed in disguises
such as draped, dark, and thick fabric;
noses are consciously at work,
inhaling fine dust let sacredly
by generations of church-goers
more concerned with eternal damnation
than posterity in general—
these nostrils attempt to
make as little noise as possible,
preserving the moment’s sanctity—
than those there seated at present;
minds are undoubtedly drifting
and returning with a jolt,
and ears are undoubtedly
straining to hear words not
meant to be heard.

III
The group standing
across the little aisle
is swathed in the appropriate
garb of barely-dried ranicoats;
they do not know a word of Dutch
more than I, but appear
more suited to where they stand;
we regard the racks of books
guardedly as a unit
and as separately isolated individuals;
I wonder sardonically
at the general lack of
journals on sale—
her journals being what brings
us to this gift shop,
I expected journals—
and wonder if they wonder
the same;
they stand uneasily,
itching to leave the place
behind but desirign to
let sleeping dogs lie
and uphold the memory of the dead;
their fingers trace an image
here, a title there;
their eyes pause as they skim
a row of black and white postcards,
thinking of Amsterdam and
moving as haltingly as ever.

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