thursday evening

Here is the secret the mirror-glass knows
Across the car from my gray metro-rail seat–
The double-time beat of my feet on the floor,
The smell of the sea that lifts up from my hair
  in the air that comes in with the whoosh of the door –
The sand in my jean cuffs, the sugar that sticks
  to my lips and my hands –
And I'm tripping toward sound that I suddenly hear –
– yes, we're finally here –
The train's barely still,
Out and downwards, I spill –
Fall out into the street.