On the railway station bench

It’s better to meditate at sunrise,

they say. Inhale two, three, four, 

exhale two, three, four. I close 

my eyes to look for my nothing

box. Mine is a storage room

half-painted and full of mislabeled 

junk, with a radio tuned to the last

stupid summer hit. Dust particles

shine behind my itching eyelids —

a micro-universe of falling stars with

no kids or lovers or fools to wish upon

them, or a primordial soup of banal

thoughts and to-do lists. Maybe 

I forgot how to count. Or how to 

breathe, like the alien possessing

human bodies in the book my husband 

used to read to me in bed when 

we were young. Last night in bed 

we argued; I dirtied his recently 

cleaned kitchen while cooking, 

the sweet mango juice stuck to 

the counter. Or maybe I need new 

glasses, but then I would see this

beautiful red sunrise is poisoned.

Not today. My train is coming.