Coloring

The Ashmont train is always late
those days I am
blotted out by the crowd.
Exchanging r's for l's clutching
ipods, cell phones, showing freshly stained
yellow fingernails.
The grey-green walls absorb me:
transparent.

I rode the 23 here naked
an outline on the slippery seat.
The travelers looked
and looked away
through colored windows
at neighbors clothed
as always
in ebony finery.

And then:
her lips painted, so real
moist crimson
she charted her flamenco conversation
round hips.
Purple heels on cement stairs, bright
A brown shrug erased me again.
Someone, (quickly before the red train comes)
find me a skin colored crayon.

- Rebecca Horner, Fall 2009