You are superior to me because you are obscure.
No one quite knows what your poetry means
and this gains you sophisticated followers,
nonetheless shy when questioned.
Rattling the New York Times in the beginning of the day,
they feign surprise when I accost them with tears.
Is this a bullet train? Or is the driver drunk?
When do we arrive in Swampscott?
The commute home, when you are tired,
calmly surrendering to the motion of the train—
a mass of hurry—is a rich feeling. Out of the corner of your eye,
a torn ticket. A slightly windy sky.