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Or you'll wonder just what they do all day in their clothes, in those suits.
Men.
You sit on the express, 5:27 to Southeast, listen to the stops, to when they call the stop, to when the say the word.
Katonah.
And you imagine the station, the trees that run behind the house, the town.
Before they were just letters.
Before, 684 was just a highway--an open expanse of road and sky and stars, moon like an orange slice, moon more like the rind, a shaving of white light.
September.
Imagine the front porch and the lawn furniture. Chair and chair, umbrella and sofa, or the quesions:
Where would he take you? Hasn't the weather turned cold? Should you really go into the house?
Up the stairs and your hands along the walls, or smile or look down, and smile in the kitchen when he draws you to a kiss at the sink?
This is what it is.
Harlem, 125th street, the 5:37, White Plains, the first stop, 5:59, the city.
The city where in the wake of highrise beams and lights you live and walk and do this.
Mamaroneck to Main to North Broadway to Franklin to 25 to the hall and the door and no one and nothing.
The city where once in parking lots you thought of different names to call yourself. Us, ourselves. Garage concrete and roof tops, the ringing of belt buckles, taut denim, fire trucks from the street, sucker mouth, skinny, skinny boy.
You want to give too much and here now, you fear it:
The condescending conductor, the businessmen, retailers, homeowners, the man with the headphones, the Asian woman and her strange purple socks, the reflections of faces in windows--you fear them.
They see you.
Girl on a train.