Tripping Poem by Cristina Musat

You struck your palm illegally upon the fog-milked glass:

Brutish, instinctual, no real reason:

Your fingers spread upon the glass.

Flickering electrical lights shone sepia-hued within the dark sleeping wagon.

Your fingers spread, then still. I observe your foreignness

As your palm begins to glide.

Just a fraction of a gliding, though; as you

Civilly retreat your palm

Upon your lap

And then blink at me –

Lucidly,

Presently.