The CTA Asks You to Be a Vigilant Rider
After the rain a robin hops the sidewalk edge, pulls a worm from the place where pavement meets grass. On this morning I walk in puddles to the train, pull my heart from the place where you put it. Spring is practically gray and I thank it. The wind lifts water from the trees and I take it with me, put my wet umbrella in an empty seat. If you see something, say something, prompts the CTA. A woman who looks like my mother but with dark hair reads Exit to Eden. A young man asks for a dollar to sponsor his basketball team. I hand him a five, he says that’s fine, and gives me no change. Last night I watched you pack my things. You tore books and clothes from shelves, threw them in a laundry basket and gave it all to me. I watched us with cautious eyes and could never have predicted that violence— looked at our love and never saw the danger. My feet squish in my shoes, the Chicago skyline juts up to turn gray into blue, and a smiling toddler squirms from her father to ask me my name. Beaded windows beat and rails scream. My heart, my contraband, I cannot speak.