Stopping briefly at the morning station
emitting cheap cologne scent ——
the train is hoarding three thousand 
wild pigeons in its engine. Fireworks. 
Its silent fire. The train is leaving again. 
I eat my breakfast: a Fuji apple with no tag. 
Professor from her plastic checkered file bag 
takes out a stack of final paper. Two rows 
ahead, a man with glasses stretches his
rough fingers several times, enlarging 
the party photo to see between the petals
of his friend's wife’s lips. Young barista, 
having rushed to catch the car, now simmers 
sweat under the shell of his coat. Outside 
the window. Factory. Its brick chimney whose
bottom is surrounded still with a few days 
of snow frozen like curses. The new milk begins 
to fly again. On the dusty ground, on the rubbish, 
on the stone. The wet-shoed men in baseball cap. 
The rusty iron chariots. The skinny cook of 
a Chinese restaurant splaying his feet open 
on the cement ridge by the railroad above 
an oil puddle, next to the dense forest of old Honda 
cars, smoking a cigarette. Real trees on the other side 
barely holding their leafless shed up, like joyless 
astronomers, slowly moving their telescope from 
left to right, watching me, and chase me and ask: 
Human in the car, what could it be 
that you are waiting for?

It is hard to admit: 
four hours of train ride is just to smell
the smell of your laundry detergent. 

The lame machines on the roadside are already covered with snow. 
Snow the swearing perverse pale birds lands on my car, 
lands on the ugly geese and the mottled roads. 
Snow, snow, more and more snow, and snow, and I, and snow, and snow 
is white like the fresh paint on a dirty wall ——
It also has something to hide from you.