I was in a train
when this old woman looked across
with a confused look.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing over here?"
she said,
her voice trailing with the
jam of stinky
half-brained men.
"My father has passed away. I am here to meet him."
Her face crumpled,
like her tongue had encountered
a sour taste
like her body
had touched dirt,
like her brain managed
to get hold of her daughters darkest secrets.
"I'm sorry" she said, letting out
the sour smell of judgement.
But she wasn't.
She wasn't sorry.
She was an old woman with sunglasses
to hide her scanning eyes,
an old woman with a mask of makeup to hide
the scars of revolution.
She was a stranger.
"You're not really sorry." I said, realizing how I
became her,
a young bag of judgements.