it smelled like fruit at
the train station this morning
maybe it was the mother -
infant draped, arms
over her shoulder
soft and smiling

it could've been the man
holding flowers
white knuckled
hungrily consuming the tile
with black patented
like the ants I see
carrying off
other ants

or maybe it’s that three years later
summer still feels
like orange peels
baking in a hot
train station
and I’m still there
weighing out how
it feels to be human