A well cured woman with
tied back hair and
a Mac for fashion,
with also a mac for all weather action,
sat across from me on the train.

Probably sexually active and
without a doubt physically attractive,
she wore morals not money.
PETA badges peppered her lapel,
as she toyed with the check-in details
for the Four Seasons Hotel.
Never will I forget her scent;
high class, high art, high culture,
all distilled within a single
sculpture of smell.
My word, how she spoke so softly,
on the phone or too herself,
even when she asked me for help.

Definitions aren't embodied
in a person that often.
Maybe ex-girlfriends define hell,
but sitting-on-a-train-Mac-user
personified beauty, love,
and the everlasting man seducer.

Everything had a place,
neatly *******, zipped in the case.
The handle extended ready for
the station;
a one way train to a working vacation.

She stole the tickets before he’d gone, hid them away to deceive and prolong.

Over there where street names are art
and the coffee barista, 24-hour-bars
sit brimming like every star or
burning ember,
found within iron clad, raw splendour;
is where he wants to sit and reside,
to write about the commuter tide.

Books will live on reclaimed shelves,
stacked high like Tokyo, midnight hotels,
ordered by tears shed
and poetically written lines,
not alphabetically
or in genre kinds.

There, for 900 Euros a month,
with a deposit to be paid up front and all at once,
windows look out onto windows-
tenants do the same; but
this time smiling, mid-browse,
mid-game.

She stole everything he wanted to regain,
so parried her move
and took off in the rain,
to the nearest station
to the first train.
No ticket was held in his left wet hand,
just a Howl for the planned
and one for the descent, to the
north-of-the-river
Three Brothers apartment.