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Thursday, October 31, 2013

365 Poems: Strangers in France

Day 304


Who is the girl in the picture? I don't know. She had the window seat on the train that day. We didn't talk.

Maybe, if we looked real close, we'd see me in the window reflection, taking the picture.

God, we'd had an early morning, getting up at five to be at St. Pancras by six and the station was not even hardly open and the tour guide didn't even show up 'til seven. And the train not leaving until 8:15.

And then the ride through London, the not-so-pretty side, the factories and the railyards and the electric lines and in-and-out of tunnels and we weren't even sure which tunnel we were in until that last one seemed to go on forever, not that it was any blacker or anything, even if we were God knows how far under the English Channel.

And then, the light, and we were someplace else, when I looked out the window, I had to get a picture no matter how bad, even with the unknown girl who, I think, was actually in my seat.  Two things -- one, I'm in France f-ing France and two, good God. It looks like Indiana.

How very, very odd. And yet, on this last day of October, two-and-a-half months and however many thousand miles away, strangely comforting.

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