Above
my muted pages, the daily troupe of students
Cast
themselves along the train I take to work.
Stationed
corner-seat, I tune in to their words,
Pleased
to hear their youthful news and jokes. But wait,
Something’s
wrong. In this former group of six
One
of them is not with them. There –
A
strangely tragic face. Every now and then he turns
with
hope, though every turn is something new,
Like
the way that ‘please’ means different things
Every
time it’s asked, like the way that ‘sorry’
Loses
hope if it must be said again.
I
wonder at my wonder and hope they all regroup.
And
when they exit left I’m left alone to ask
How
their roles will unfold in tomorrow’s act.
A text! A text! That’s
two! I know he thinks
Grinning towards his phone’s
blinding glow
Like a little boy on
Christmas Eve
Catching sight of gifts
with blazing hopes
Warm enough to last the
unforgiving
Cold outside. All
around, his only
Friends, like me,
disappear again.
One must ask: who is she
to him?
Reasons to ignore the
divorce eroding this beleaguered
Youth, the unforgettable
charm of delaying discomfort,
A stranger to uphold all
the victories and half the defeats,
Destiny’s apologetic
hug, a romantic embrace,
Ornamented mysteries
rekindling suffocated dreams,
Beautiful warmth and the
presence of a new distraction.
Attention is the
greatest gift to get
When you’re scared to give it to yourself.
Samuel Armen is an author and educator. Orphaned after the 1988 Gyumri-Spitak Earthquake and adopted by Armenian-Americans in New York, he currently divides his time between psychology research, serving as an English teacher at Brooklyn Technical High School, managing education programs across rural Armenia, and publishing his writing. His works have appeared in The Raw Art Review, Hetq, CivilNet, The Showbear Family Circus, Dreamers Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, Hey, I'm Alive Magazine, Beyond Words Magazine, Wingless Dreamer, Griffel, Allegory Ridge and Poet’s Choice.
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