On the Train Through the Alps (an interlude poem by Jay)

I want to read my magazine,
To be metropolitan and politically keen.
Germans, Austrians, and Italians
(Oh my!)
They will shuffle by,
To see me
Reclined,
Knee crooked on knee,
In a chair, in a compartment, in a car of a train.
James Bond mystique with dirt under my nails,
Unwashed hair and enviable brain.
Citizens of the EU will crinkle their brows,
"Americans are supposed to be loud..."
But not I.
Literature is my boon and information my drug.
This is what I'll do while the world hums by.

But before I begin or even take my seat,
I bow my head in adolescent defeat.
Staring out my window, chin in palm,
Some fancy pants man,
Sunglasses, iPhone, and earbuds on.
How could I concentrate? My ego thrive?
With a J. Crew mannequin in seat 45?

So I pout and sulk.
Clop together my toes,
And try not to eat my sandwich.
Because when the mind is preoccupied
With being unoccupied,
Naturally it thinks about lunch.

I last twenty minutes.
The sandwich is delicious,
And leaves me full
Of regret.
Nothing left to eat.
I don't feel like sleep.
Fancy pants has ruined my day.

Brushing flakes from the shoulder of my refracted reflection,
Beyond the syncopated whips that were trees,
And the slate roofed shores of quick currented fields,
I spy
The German Alps,
Jagged and frosted,
Crawling the horizon.

Wide eyes shallow breath shaking fingers
Forget fancy pants
Forget politically keen and metropolitan
The camera!
Snapshots digitally pile
Bills from a broken ATM.
I'm sweating.
I'm loud.
Justifying an "I'm with stupid -->" T-shirt.
Green.
American.
Indifferent passengers bounce in the hall,
Ignoring my pointing finger, clicking shutter, and wheezing.
What is wrong with you all?
Look!
Just to your right!
Glaciers made those!
With only time and patient wandering!
But no.

Fancy pants
Sunglasses, iPhone, and earbuds on.
Still.

So I pout and sulk.
Clop together my toes,
Thinking about my lack of sandwich.
Whips that were trees,
Fields shored by roofs,
Mountains crawl back the way they came.

The horizon warps and nears.
A shift of gears.
A sustained whoosh,
The train sucks at the air.
Holds its breath,
Then-sudden-
With a collective
Gasp
And yawn

Mountains

Appear like dawn.
Unreal facades against a too blue sky,
Draped in white and granite and green.

Through evaporated windows
The great hands of the slopes,
Cradle our breath in our throats,
And hold our chins like our gaze.
Mountains, train, passengers and me
Thrum to the beat of one pulse.

Fancy Pants
Sunglasses and earbuds on,
Raises his phone
Snaps a pic
Together we smile.

7