There is a man in a black tracksuit.
He swigs from a soda bottle, lips spudding wetly
round the neck, and burps out loud,
then repeats the process six or seven times.
His shoes are off and he is spread
across two seats,
yawning angry like an ape,
his collar is open, a thick, unlinked silver chain
winds his neck like a slow worm.
When he sneezes, I bless him.
He looks at me blankly, and says nothing.