on a train from jandyll at 3:55 am

lattes fill the air and

spill over into conversations 

of newspapers that are read 

with eyelids cracked soon

enough for ella fitzgerald to lull me into 

a dream of this man’s bald head

on my right shoulder 

like father or grandfather or 

uncle joe 

giving me energy

while hope conducts itself

as a direct object 

in motion at 125 mph and

halts when unfulfilled 

in artificial 

sugars that dissolve into 

nothing 

in tea cups

meant to be coffee mugs

coming from a land

only understood by myself and those

on my trip along the way

in this early morning facade