The man across from me is snapping gum

The man across from me is snapping gum.

Snap. Pause. Snap. Pause.

6 AM, and everyone looks half-dead,

moving like they're being pulled through the car

by invisible strings.

I was annoyed at first. Then I watched

his jaw work—the small ritual of it,

the way he needed this small sound

to keep himself here, to say

I exist, I am doing something, I am

still in this body on this train.

The gum is probably terrible for his teeth.

The sound is probably driving someone

to madness. But I see the need underneath—

how we all carry small weapons

against disappearing.

Snap. Pause. Snap.

His stop came. He stood, still chewing,

walked toward the doors like a man

who had negotiated a truce with the morning.

I wanted to tell him: I know what you're doing.

I know exactly what you're doing.