Two gray pigeons flapping back and forth
inside Washington’s Union Station
skimming the heads of Amtrak passengers bound for Baltimore or Boston.
Interlopers landing, pausing, stepping, and bobbing,
searching with tiny orange eyes for scraps and crumbs
unconcerned about finding the way out.

A woman with spikey hair and black-penciled eyes paces back and forth,
face contorted, barking into a cell phone.
Suddenly, she drops her bag and falls to her knees.
“I can’t go through this again!” she shouts.
“Were the hell is my fucking ticket?”
Anxiety fosters chaos sparks anxiety.
“Oh my god!! WHERE IS MY TICKET???
Rummaging. Rummaging. Rummaging.
“Yes!” she shouts, to no one in particular, to all the people quietly waiting for the train.
None listen, yet can’t help but hear.


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