Nobody's Leeks

Someone left a paper bag on the seat

when they got off.

The doors were already going.

Two leeks sticking out the top.

Something in plastic below.

The bag tilted toward the window

like it was watching the platform leave.

I saw four people notice.

The woman across the aisle looked at it,

looked at the doors,

found something on her phone.

The man in the blue jacket

looked at it, looked at the ceiling,

put his hands in his pockets.

The train moved.

The bag sat there in the empty seat.

I thought: someone should—

and then let the thought go,

the way you do

when you're also not doing anything.

Three more stops the bag rode.

At mine I got off.

I don't know what happened to it.

I've been thinking about the leeks

since this morning.

Not the groceries. Not whoever forgot them.

The four people.

The five, actually.