Sonnet for Second Glances

You talk so much of busy trains, the heat, the harsh florescent light and how they fall upon the brain. I would have thought that such a sight would be a poet’s paradise — the many varied histories, the pointless pockets of a life all written on the identities of passenger faces. Each look reveals another form of you returning the gaze; and each nook conceals the chance for something new. But, perhaps, you only perceive the busy train you want to leave.