The Third Chair

The train car sways like a heavy lung.

They share the wire, a thin white line

between his ear and hers. He’s hung

his weight on what she says. It’s fine.

I watch him tilt his head to catch

the spill of sound she lets go free.

I pull a napkin’s edge to patch

the holes in what I shouldn’t see.

The paper turns to graying pulp

on the plastic table between my knees.

The tunnel takes us with a gulp.

The air is thick. I cannot freeze.