The Nap

The train groaned, a metal sigh,

every stop a jolt, a new strain.

Across the aisle, her thumb,

slow-moving, back and forth,

over the matted velvet lapel

of her coat. Dark blue, almost black.

Bruised, I thought, from years of this,

of hands seeking comfort,

the fine pile worn smooth in spots,

deepened in others.

It looked like a memory you could

press your face into,

a place to hide from the hard edges

of a journey, the unforgiving seats.

I wanted that dense forgiveness,

that absorption of light,

a small, silent ocean against the thumb,

a quiet, deep color,

just for a moment.