THE THINGS NOT MINE:

 

On a train, on a seat, sat no one. A folded newspaper in the 

place of a person. A woman gets on, looks at me, looks at the 

newspaper, then back at me. I shake my head discretely to let 

her know the things not mine. Stooping & flipping it open in

anticipation of distraction she recoils to see a feather lying 

in the crook of a crumpled cigarette packet. I don’t let her 

see me watching, not wishing to embarrass as she flops it onto 

the floor. Something voodoo about the combination make me draw 

back my feet not wishing to touch it in case it’s bad magic. 

It’s just a train, an ordinary thing, carrying extraordinary 

combinations into the city of dreams.

 

(K)