Sludge on every rim like chocolate frosting.
It’s not my fault there is an unwrapped condom on the bench next to me.
No one comes near.
They all make eye contact.
One woman says, sneering, “Are you serious?”
I eat salty chips out of a bag.
I’m not serious or kidding.
I didn’t put it there.
I feel guilty
for being able to put indiscretion easily out of mind.
The train sends a warm wave like nausea over us,
and we are thinking worms in a stuffy can.
Nothing is ever over.
We think about each other,
make awkward eye contact,
squirm in close containment.