The train car window is smeared from where someone sitting
here prior to be leaned (his or her) head, a “Kilroy was here” unintentionally
left behind by some weary fool traveling this route just as I am.
Outside, beyond the mark, the landscape passes as we pass through
the landmarks of another time, which I engage with each trip, there and back,
her stain on me and the scene world not merely on the glass, as indelible as a
tattoo, and one I would not willingly remove, seeing her face even as dimness
hides the world she once lived in, as I resist leaning my head against the
class, as weary as I have become.
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