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Egg-on-a-roll day. It's almost spring, but I'm still so cold. I have some nice tea with milk, and Iggy Pop to sing for me. Daddy has his nasty sugarless black coffee. I cough a little, and some people look at me strangely. I wonder why. There's this man sitting in a seat diagonal from mine. He has messy thick gray-black hair, and a purple jacket. Behind the jacket is a dark sweater and a tie. He looks like a disorganized teacher. I just love it when teachers show me they're human. Anyway, he's writing something in a childish blue handwriting along the pages of a spiral notebook. It looks like a poem. The first line says "BA" and the next "L." The other lines look more like normal sentences, but he's too far away from me to really see. I wonder if maybe he's a brilliant new poet who's about to be published, or something. He glances at me, and shakes his head "no." Have I been staring? I think the worst thing in the world is to be alone. But I'm not alone for long. My friend from junior high comes on the train. He's memorizing a Robert Frost poem. what a horrible English teacher he has! If you're forced to memorize poetry, then you'll never enjoy it. It'll seem like too much work. And the poem's really too good to ruin like that. Enough ranting for now - Chambers Street. |