Citizenship

The street lamps as I walk towards the rusted train station are on,

and I watch a one-armed man and a man with Parkinson’s work together to fix the lamp across the street.

My train is on schedule,

Driven by a grizzled man, with a beard and ditch-like wrinkles.

The cart I sit within glides like a surfboard on sand;

Electrically.

Smooth and uninterrupted, my train is on schedule, missing no stops,

The new passengers that enter are possessed with eyelid rings and angry phone calls.

I sit with my book completely unbothered,

Staring intently, childishly enthralled.

Eyes unfazed glistening above the dark crescents they rest upon.

My stop,

Onto the street.

The cars and street lights and pedestrians are like a symphony.

Widgets and cogs and gears,

Synchronizing mechanistically in unison.

Tuned instruments,

Played masterfully by broken people.

My hollowly bright eyes shift upon a flock of pigeons,

Being fed by an old man, who were both like musical notes harmonizing.