New-Life Reuse

Some empty can entrances me in its
clank across the train's floor.

It passes in the aisle between me
and a girl with white wire headphones

stuck in each ear, oblivious
to my stare like a goldfish mouthing, "Pick me,"

a goldfish mouthing, "No more
loneliness." Patient inertia

of each stop and start, empty
can in a steel rain stick.

Waggish inertia takes over,
rolls the can a hand's length

over and over its spine. I reach
to rub its aluminum ribcage,

but a matchmaking inertia steps in
and sends it along a dotted line

drawn by my psychic infatuation.
A twist on spin the bottle, a can

crawling back and forth between us,
Ouija-like, you, him.

Next stop she kicks the can
hard, and exits. In this childhood game,

she would stand victorious, having struck
what was left out in the open, unguarded.