The 4-Train Writer

My eyes wondered about the atmosphere looking to view
something that might hinder attention of odd proportions
til it came across a woman focused on a notebook
her belongings scattered across the seats
her apple juice placed on the floor in neglection.
Piercing through her hands, I found what was holding her captive
the words of her life, spread throughout both pages
her eyes flashing from side to side scanning for errors
She never stopped to wonder if she reached
the destination she had to find.
feverishly she wrote what was coming from her mind
her thoughts as cluttered as the material she wrote on
the material she wrote on as cluttered as her belongings
Wait - she stopped.
We had only reached 14th Street.
What could possibly make her cease & desist?
Regathering my senses, one lucid fact remained:
I've wandered too far...
Wait - she writes again! And faster, more rigorously than before
as if a temporary writer's block had come upon her
and her mind in return struck down at it with a hard blow
saying, "Get thee behind me, insipid writer's block!"
Caucassian, well matured, middle-aged lady in the back
train car of the 4-train I'm riding to get home became
the object of my attention span, wondering how it is that she
had no idea of the life that's around her and only cares
about the life she's living in the sentences she's placing on that
cluttered material in which its remnants fell on the floor.
I place them to the side, in which her thank you is the only sign
of emotion she has expressed on my train ride home.
Fulton Street's train doors just opened, and her mind was still
engulfed into the work she's dedicated to 'til her alarm snapped:
This was her stop!!
Egad, losing track of time can be a pain when you have fun
in what you write, but now it hurts because the fun must end.
Still aghast from the suddenness of it all,
she hastily gathered her books and stood in between the train doors.
Her thirst grew louder, and I was the closest to her apple juice.
I handed it to her in thanks, for an experience no one can duplicate.
Her smile, warmer than body heat of the traincar's passengers
remained a painting in my eyes,
as the mysterious 4-Train Writer
vanished into the exit ramp.

Absolut Terry @ 1:35 AM| link