5am, Local-101

In the compartment of the local train,

I don’t search for a soul to talk.
There is no one but
a stinking frail old man;
sleeping in the corner,
aside his garbage sack,
shivering in cold.

I prefer to be alone; unruffled,
Placid outside, agitated inside.
Clamors of the hanging lose metals
Strike the ear hard; cold winds struggle,
They penetrate my windcheater,
Barging into my ears.
Spine-chilling sensation
engulfs the body,
I remain unperturbed.
Looking aside,
The old man yawns.

The train halts at the next station;
people rush in to fill the vacuum.
They pounce on seats,
their first victory of the morning.
l know some of them by face,
They also know me,
But we rarely talk.

We only communicate
in the dialects of our eyes.
Yet we are unified
by our journeys,
dreams, tragedies,
lust, greed,
hopes, fears,
mediocrity, civility,
recklessness, masochism
prostates, mustaches,
odors, audacity,
multitudes of thoughts,
zillions of desires

The train comes to a screeching halt,
I see the old man collecting his belongings.
His odor diffuses into the compartment,
he is despised by everyone.
Abuses hurled, brows frowned,
He leaves the train calmly.

When I descend,
My eyes search for him
I could choose;
to forget him,
to help him,
I look at my watch, I was late for the office,
I postponed the later
May be, for next time……………