metro north

On the 7:07 express to Stamford,
local to New Haven, I'm listening
to a debate about creative naming
in the seventies and early eighties
by parents presumed to be named 
Tom and Mary and George.
I answered the question
which way does this train go?
with a point, rather than the obvious
well, not in the direction
of the stairs you just walked down.
Another story, about a schoolgirl,
punctuated by 
  nobody likes me
  everybody hates me
  nobody likes me
  everybody hates me
concludes with I don't know
what do do, she needs 
a lot of help.
Something happened in the toilet:
I ain't got not choice 
but to address it.
Mighty early for such messes.
Reading the poems of Mary Oliver
and Patti Smith, I look like
I stumbled from bed to this train,
because that's just what I did.
Attempting to exude hipster cool
with my jeans and pashmina,
tousled hair and notebook scribbling,
obviously I live the life 
of late nights, jazz clubs,
and hotel rooms.
Eh, it's only me. Work is done.
I'll be home for lunch.