Written On My Hand

Lean into the door,
It’s crowded, it’s peak hour
I just want to be home
But I still have to change trains

The guy in front of me has great shoulders
Hanging onto the handle
Like a monkey
Swinging so slightly with the track rock

The word orange is written on his hand
In black pen
All in lower case
Running toward his index finger

Has he just decided that this is his favourite colour
And he had to write it down
So as not to forget,
That he now loves orange

Or has it just always been his favourite colour
So much so
That he wrote it down
Simply because he loves it

It is not a name, not a time
Not a task
It’s not an address
Or a phone number

It’s just the word ‘orange’, he knows what it means
It is there to remind him of what orange really is
And then he’ll wash it off
And orange will be gone, but not forgotten

My body rocks, synchronous with his
And every other fucker on this train
I write the word ‘Lemon’ on my hand,
I use an uppercase L, it’s a colour, a smell, a taste, a fruit

Such a beautiful colour
Not that I can wear it
But one day
I will probably have a dinner set in lemon.

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