The Woman at the Trolley Station

She wore a red lycra skirt
with a similarly colored bra
meant to serve(?) as a shirt.
She spoke little english
which wasn’t totally unsurprising
we weren’t in America.
When she whispered her seductions
she did so in a tongue I didn’t speak
though her tone was something I could recognize
the things she said cascaded from me
drops in a greater rain
that I let wash over me
taking it in
as a weary traveler might
in a vain attempt at feeling normalcy
in the midst of a strange land.
A stranger
waiting for a familiar face to rise
from under the surface
something common
something regular
to grab onto
creating a center
a waypoint in the storm of unfamiliarity
providing the jumping-off point
to a welcome
(and in this case)
unpredictable adventure.

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