The beast shutters in the darkness,
as we course outbound
away from the salt licked shores
of the bay.
You slip into position
the seat providing solace
I suppose,
from the concrete
and the cold.
I view you now
through my trained lens:
diagnosing the seborrhea
and the burgeoning alopecia
for in my other speak -
"appears older than stated age."
The stains grow deep
into your weathered surface
yet what draws me closer
are the blackness,
the decay
of the finger tips.
Digits the tinge of midnight,
in the heart of a March eve,
for my mind runs the differential
of your sadness
and your madness.
I wager the stain
grew in the cold nights
when numbers #1-3
crept out of an encased sleeve
into the numbing crisp air.
I wonder of these digits
black from an acrid burning
an escape into a moment
of synthetic bliss.
Yet, the diagnostic lens
worries of organic poisons coursing
through your veins;
a heart and its chambers
a permanent home to your
impending death.
Your eyes close now
in a moment of rest
or escape
or transcendence;
allow me to sit and worry
for a moment
about the differential
of your demise
on an outbound train.
