To The Lady on the Train,
Autumn has held off until the last moment and it seems that all the leaves are dropping at once. The corners of curbs and fences and stairs are the gathering places where the wind has brushed them aside. Sidewalks and lawns are splotched with yellows, rusts, and browns.
The morning has come dark and wet and the sounds of the city are muffled. The streetcar I ride in is a bubble of contradiction to the world beyond the windows. Inside the lights are too bright, the babies cry, and in the eyes of the commuters only a tenseness or a deadness behind their eyes.
Along early morning Queen street, the streetcar pulls us into the city past storefronts and cafes. As the city wakes up, lights from coffeehouses illuminate the baristas and the few early customers getting their caffeine fix. Their movements are slow and deliberate. No one wants to fully wake up just yet. The wet pavement shines like stars reflected in a river.
I want to get off the streetcar to walk the wet pavement, to amble and dream, and to enter into one of the cafes. I imagine standing on a worn wooden floor and having my head filled with the scent of rich fresh ground coffee. But I am already late. There will be no one handed warmth and shimmering lights for me.
Already the sky is brightening to a dull flat grey. The lumbering car squeals around the corner onto King. I have arrived and I step out into a world brighter, but lost of colours. I have arrived at a place of speed that goes nowhere.
The Man in the Station
