G Train

The G train arrives right when I need it to. A perfectly reliable train depending on my mood, I’m realizing. Each stop feels spread from the next at random. Long then short then infinite then short again. I spent so many months believing it was greenpoint that I missed. It’s weird when you leave something alone for long enough and then you come home to it, except you can’t call it that anymore because that’s not what it is anymore. And then you realize home doesn’t exist, or rather it does but it floats along with you. It doesn’t stay put, like a potted plant or anything else lacking legs of its own. It doesn’t stick or fall stagnant because the rules are different now and home’s more like a shadow clipped to the edge of your heels or toes depending on your direction and your relation to the sun. And even when you think you’ve left it behind, it’s right there. Chasing you up the hill by the cliffs in California, walking you to the store through the rain, sitting beside you on a perfectly prompt G train.