We'll meet that coming train to ride     
And if we wait     
Together on the wood-hard bench     
We'll sit both on one side.     

Then in the crowded places,     
Push together there to find a seat,     
And hear the voices and the steam     
Mingle in one constant stream     
Of tired whispers, tired faces.     

Dim light, yellow, narrow, low,     
Reflected hands on blackened glass.     
Swing back and back around the turn.     
Peering into empty night     
We see our faces, eyeless shadows.     

Hours wander, backward, down the aisle,     
Hanging on each seat to balance,     
Step and stumble, while we watch     
Unseeing, numb, but feeling every mile.