ELOWEN DOVREN

Residue

We sit in a row, staring at our phones,
while the train pulls us 
through the dark parts of the city.
The man across from me
holds a bunch of carnations.
The plastic wrap crinkles
as the train hits a curve.

A scar cuts across his palm
and his eyes keep snagging 
on the face of his watch.
He gets off at the next stop,
disappears into the crowd.

I am left with the scent 
of wet plastic and the feeling of a story
that was never mine to know.
We all carry something 
under our coats:
a grief, a secret, the phantom heat 
of a hand once held.