I Dream of Stingrays

A warning, mostly only presented when it’s no longer needed, as in

for wet paint that’s hours been dry. A warning, please hold on to your

belongings, not hold on to your longings or simply hold on. 

We are given too much credit for our grip of the abstract. Signs

never remind you of that. 

And an emergency exit is just another yellow thing,

as insignificant as a sleeping body. I looked

into the ear of the man across from me,

as if it might be the source of noise (the train’s black screech)

as if it, too, held a history.

As if it went on for miles.