The Last Train

As my metro card hummed
behind a turnstile. I saw the next
train sign towards Moncloa digitally shift
from 0 minutes to 15.

I truly thought I would never
make it back.

Chamartin Station's styrofoam-white lights
fell like rain. I had to pee and
the digital sign estimated
that the last train was now
13 minutes away.

Pacing the tiled floor,
I witnessed the station seemingly expand
to accommodate Saturday
night's final crowd of torn denimed partykids,
knockoff handbag salespeople, and
late shift streetperformers.

At 12:29 the echoey metro screech
howled through its tunnel. The last
of the yellow line sounded so self richeou
tonight. It probably knew it's importance.

At 12:30 I boarded the tinny
vessel. The windows squeaked when
I pressed my finger down them to
draw a smiley face.
The fog filled in the translucence
when the doors shut, sealing
the crowded, breathy heat of Madrilleños.

A young father with his strollered
child and the child's mother
stood impatiently towards the door.
He padded his forehead sweat
with baby wipes while the child
let out innocent screams. I could make out from
his conversation to the mother
"This place is big. I want to return to Cuba."

She looked at him and then at the baby.
She plucked the little one out of the buggy
hugging the tantrum out of him.
"I do not like it in Cuba" she whispered
in between headkisses.

Before the father could respond the
Train lurched the family, the stroller, the Saturday night crowd,
and me into the front end of the train,
announcing over the itchy speaker,
"proxima parada: Lavapies."
I excused myself through the crunch, out of the train.

How strange to have such a serious conversation
on the metro, I thought, still needing to pee.