Travel
Bleary-eyed I seek the source of my disturbance.
Yes. The alarm. 3:30.
I tap the too-bright phone screen and will myself to sit up. If I stay laying, the temptation to rest my eyes would be too great and all the preparation would've been for naught.
Boots. Pants. Hats. Sweaters. None their original color. Caked in dust. Are the men who toil in the back breaking work of construction ever free from the grime and atomic particles of the work site?
Odor. Body, clean. Body, unbathed. Old. Young. Decay. Dust. Musk. Synthetic sweetness.
That first drag of the day; a blanket of comfort. A cape. Like with it, they can take on the day.
The dousing. Or a spritz. Floral. Amber. Woodsy. Whatever the mood, the olfactory symbol of some innocence. Some power. Being.
Sunrise gilding the skyline. Not Manhattanhenge but that's overrated anyway.
Sleep takes hold but it's not a good sleep. It's tolerant at best, persistent drowsiness at worst.
Sit. Sit. Sit.
Watch the scenery pass us by. Empty yards, overgrown lots. Wetlands surrounded by toxic factories of questionable contents.
The occasional ice cold breeze is jarring. People shuffling to and from the café car. Quick, close the door. The air is icy. Total comfort eludes me.
Cheeseburgers. Hotdogs. Coke products.
Apple pay. Google pay. Cash is faster.
Twang. Folks headed home, no doubt. South of the Mason Dixon Line.
An explanation of "tea."
Levity.
Somber stance on line. Waiting to give my order. The train sways and I manage to keep my balance. Trains got characters.