Amtrak Depot, Penn Station, New York.

[Certain]

Crusted corners of eyes sweeping the room,
strained by the fluorescent lights' deepening gloom.
We're fucking glowing in sadness.
Track delay, explosive reactions,
with coffee and body odor corroding the transit.
And we're bundled.
It's cold outside. We're stuck in the sweat pit.
Funneling frustrations through each thrust at the exits.
The mad scramble. It's love at first neck twist.
She wore leather boots and kept her head down as she texted.
Avoid eye contact, part of the (dys)functional checklist,
along with keeping track of belonging,
but none of us should be here. We're passing along.
Vagabonds of the moment. Glum cast of despondents.
She wore a winter hat, revealing a flash of her blond head.
Amanda. Might be her name. Looks like an Amanda.
The scrum reduces us to ticket numbers, turnstiles and bar scanners.
Book readers. Nook readers. Newspaper glancers.
With the turn of each page, no escape and no answers.
The seats are padded, yet the backs jettison any attempt at rest.
Still Amanda coils her boots under her leggings to stretch.
We're two hours late, discussing the weather but stuck inside,
refreshing devices in hopes of finding another ride.
Security points. Don't pet the dogs. Please step up and right.

"Now boarding":

Amanda, my love,

good-bye.