Today's Commute

The little squirrely white guy runs up to the big scruffy black guy with a cane and a beat up plastic bag from the borough library. It is a chance meeting, and they hug, exclaim, clap each other on the shoulder. They are so happy, showing huge smiles of gleaming teeth, eyes sparking in the dim light of the platform. Then the train pulls away, with one of them waving joyfully from the window and I wonder where their spheres intersect.

In my car is a young man so painfully beautiful and so unaware I can watch him without feeling awkward. Examine each part of his face, each part is so different that they seem to have been donated as spares from other families. But here they all come together so delicate, no, mysterious, no, understated powerful. I wonder if he hates his complex face, or if he has found someone to run their fingers over it's contours and show him how lovely.