Trolley Car

I was sitting in the trolley car

to get to my terminal at the London airport

when a man stood near me.

He looked in his late 20’s,

An average build, average height and

A face with features that made him look harsh.

His hand was gripped onto the rail

To the right of my seat,

I looked at it and examined

The length of his nails and

The dirt that was gathered beneath them.

I wondered how the dirt had gotten there,

Or if he noticed that his nails were getting long.

I realized then that his hand

Would never hold mine,

Never touch me,

Never caress my cheek

Or run down my thigh,

Nor did I ever want it too.

I began to wonder of all of the

Things he has ever felt with that hand.

All the hands he had held,

The cheeks he has caressed,

And all of the things he has ever touched,

And longed to touch.

I will never know his stories or his longings,

For I only spared a single “sorry” when I bumped

Into him on my way out the door,

But I knew he would never long to touch me,

Nor did I want him too,

For it could have been anyone’s hand

On the rail that I could have analyzed.

I would my own,

But I am familiar with all of the

Quiet desperations

That lie upon my fingertips.