It was an ordinary day.

The 5:17 left the downtown station on time,

passed the financial district,

the industrial district, past the brick tenements 

which seemed no more than eight feet from the tracks—

glimpses of living rooms and kitchens,

lives passing too fast to access, but sad,

then the suburbs, one after another.

By then winter-dark had fallen.

The interior of the car took on a murky, undersea, greenish hue.

The smell of wet wool and stale air made me sick.

The conductor announced each town, each station.

I didn’t recognize the names.

Nothing outside the window was familiar.

The passengers reflected in the window appeared somnolent.

The train droned on, clickity-clack, but duller.

This went on for a long time, maybe a week.

My life has been like that all along.

It doesn’t make any difference.

I dream about those living rooms and kitchens.

In that way it was an ordinary day.