He tells me he doesn't like them,
these chig-a-chig people who stand
staring blankly or with their eyes closed
as if nothing exists but the band.
He won't take the seat beside them,
not if it's the last one on the train,
he says he hates the sound they make,
and how they sometimes sing to the tunes
that chig-a-chig through their head.
He watches them from his safe place,
behind me or under my coat,
trembling in time with their music.
"You never see them leave the train,"
he whispered to me one day,
"because this is where they live."
