On the railway station bench
It’s better to meditate at sunrise,
they say. Inhale two, three, four,
exhale two, three, four. I close
my eyes to look for my nothing
box. Mine is a storage room
half-painted and full of mislabeled
junk, with a radio tuned to the last
stupid summer hit. Dust particles
shine behind my itching eyelids —
a micro-universe of falling stars with
no kids or lovers or fools to wish upon
them, or a primordial soup of banal
thoughts and to-do lists. Maybe
I forgot how to count. Or how to
breathe, like the alien possessing
human bodies in the book my husband
used to read to me in bed when
we were young. Last night in bed
we argued; I dirtied his recently
cleaned kitchen while cooking,
the sweet mango juice stuck to
the counter. Or maybe I need new
glasses, but then I would see this
beautiful red sunrise is poisoned.
Not today. My train is coming.
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