I saw her on the train
Well, not “Her”, but a
very good facsimile of
This copy of “Her” had
some mileage and
she wore it on her face,
but it was pretty darn
close to my lost “Her”.
I hate that.
It gets the mind
whirring and humming.
Gears and motors that had shut
down, start sputtering to life.
Sputtering out wild
‘What if’s?’ and ‘I Wonders’,
and all sorts of dreaded
scenario based fictionalizations
about what life might have been.
These wicked visions don’t do
anyone any good. They’re steeped
in wistfulness, accusations, mourning and
linger for too long, cluttering up
This facsimile, this doppelganger,
is someone else’s “Her”. Someone
took the time to love her, marry her
and build a life with her all so she
could wind up on my train, to spite
I caught myself thinking that I
hoped my “Her” would do better
than this shady, worn out copy.
Then I thought I was writing about
the stuff that happens on the trains
Then I went to work. Then my life
went on because it had no choice
and wallowing in the memories of
a train lady doppelganger was dumb.
It wasn’t “Her” anyway.
So why carry on like a widower
constantly eulogizing the loss
of a relationship.
There’s so many better things tosee on the train.