Transfer

I was complaining to myself about the rain

and the way the heater smelled like burning hair.

I was hunched in the corner, nursing a glare,

ready to treat the whole commute like a pain.

Then she got on at Fourth, vibrating with a sob

she was trying to swallow like a bitter pill.

I stood up and pointed to my seat, feeling ill,

watching her hands shake around a door knob.

She didn't say thanks, just leaned her head

against the glass where the oil leaves a smear.

I stood in the aisle and felt a cold fear

that my own heavy heart was just overfed.