Stranger on the Train

I rode the redline through the snow.
It was the third stop when he came to sit beside me.
His accent was thick and the remnants of his mother tongue
laid heavy upon his broken English as did the drink on his breath.
He was clad in drab green and immediately this foreign man in this foreign place
pulsed alarms of discomfort in my bones. I could not understand his words, but his intent,
that was clear. He wanted something, anything but to the point he was trying to make.
He would point left and I worried about my right. Eventually, he must have decided there were easier targets on the train and he moved on at the next stop, selecting another traveler deeper in bags than myself and began the rehearsed script again. They words were still thick, but his cadence, his delivery, they rolled out with the precision of a machine as he practiced his art.


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