Dr. Santos Station

Here,
inside the train,
I will first set my phone down on my lap
and sign the cross over my chest
while reciting the prayer
I learned in church.
Then I will quarrel
with the three-year-old beside me
who will ask for a biscuit while crying,
only to throw it on the floor.
At the same time,
I will chat
with a coworker asking
whether I will work tomorrow,
to which I will answer—
No! I will rest.
You can't be working
even on a Sunday.

Because here,
inside this cold train enclosed
by thick glass
that blocks the smoke and dust
that might otherwise enter again
at the next station,
far from the sticky, ash-colored canal water
beneath the simmering shanties,
I have time to look outside,
to search for a small face
at the edge of buildings
peeking out from behind trees.

There,
for a moment,
I will allow myself to dream
that I am not here
and that my body encompasses
the train,
the tracks,
the air,
the whole world.