Vienna

As the Orange line train nears
the final station, the car is heavy with men.
On my left, one with gray hair keeps falling asleep.
His head hangs limp, swaying. His right hand bears
a red-gold claddagh, heart turned in. Rocking,
his leg brushes mine
again
then brushes mine again. He does not stir.

The touch, brief and anonymous
under the blanket of empty stares,
thrills me.
He means no harm. He seeks his respite
as we all must.

On all sides of me, men sport rings.
I notice these things
now that my delicate band lives in its dark velvet case
and I wear two thick hunks of silver, hand-hewn knuckledusters
on my middle fingers.

Each of these men, someone has chosen.
Each of these men has chosen
to stay
at least for today
as the wind slices its January chill
across the tracks
where the train sighs to a stop.
The sleeping man rouses himself
pulls tight his scarf
and ducks out into an evening
eager to ferry weary husbands
to the ones who await them.

Home is only a moment
but it is warm enough
no matter how fleeting
the pleasure of arriving where you are known.

I follow the parade up the escalator
out to the garage where I have parked on top.
My windburnt cheeks brush against the belly of imperfect sky
whose violet embers sear the deepening blue.
The days grow longer even though it is still winter.
Light greets me now
at the end of day.