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We train passengers pass a BP station
very fast
in the dark. 
               All the good things
               -lights off at night.
As I walk the trains corridor
all the doors shake
a girl begins an anecdote with
my uncle's pants caught on
fire yesterday. 
I wonder if it will be told still
in ten years and where.
I don't stay to listen
it is not mine.
I sway,
the black men lean out of my way into each other
the white men do not.
Sometimes, I hate the South when it is a proper noun
and not a direction.
Disembartking, two women embrace
Don't cry yet honey!
and their breath fogs around us all. 
Sometimes I love
               all the good things.


-Citron