we missed the train; i'm trying to text my mom

by Brigid McCarthy

my best friend has her head down.
her forehead is kissing her kneecaps
and i can taste exasperation
(elusive and bitter)

reality is broken here;
defined only by the absence of any gods and any clocks
and the presence of bitter whistles.

as i debate on counting my minutes
i picture my body across the tracks, in anticipation of a destiny i have created.
i can't tell if it's a fantasy or a nightmare.
i think this and then i say
        Excuse me sir, does this train stop