Chrome
It’s good to know we still
can look in others’ eyes
without desire or envy,
without the risk of losing
your life, the fear
of recognition. Yet,
most of the time we keep
to ourselves: reading;
sleeping; listening to music;
looking out the window
at houses not our own, thinking
of the ones we love –
or nothing at all. So,
when the train pulls in
at Fairfield, nobody takes
any notice. Only when
a can is shaken do we lift
or turn our heads to look
to where the noise is coming
from. Graffiti is writ
then erased by the spray
filling the plastic bags.
Hey, this ain’t America, man,
I say to myself. This
is another country, mate.
We do things differently here.
This is Friday
24/03/1995.
This is the 2.07
to Hurstbridge.
At the next station
they get off the train
without having looked at anyone,
without having spoken.
Some shift in their seats,
slowly shaking their heads
in disbelief. Then there are those
who seem to have lost
their place on the page
of the book they are reading.
Comfortable in the knowledge
that the train is not going
to derail, other passengers continue
to sleep or stare into space –
and the silence is killing.
