To a Passenger in Mainz

There’s the experience of being the last one left on a railway platform.

The desired train wails away toward a city that was not expecting you.

You feel a mixture of regret and satisfaction as you retreat with your ticket and luggage.

A taxicab takes you back to the apartment. You don’t unpack.

You're not going anywhere. There's the experience of not going anywhere. There’s a

mental exercise of wondering why you didn’t catch the next train. There's the apartment’s window.

You look out on a cold wet scene— February, Mainz. What is not gray out there is brown. At least the furnace

is working. At least there’s a facsimile of Gutenberg’s press in the museum. Here’s tea, also pastry.

Into your mind by way of your mood comes a notion that your soul is leaking. You travel to your bed.