In transit, I have sentences.
In transit, I reach for my pen.
In transit, sometimes I scribble.
...madly trying to shake out
the words I've swallowed...through my arm with ink or gummed up lead.
In transit, sometimes the What If?
for an imagined character is answered with a scene.
In transit, characters converse.
But I remain above their fiction.
I remain suspended in the line through the trees and my stop arrives and the doors shut on many plot twists.
The lonely, or in love - these characters lie in wait for movement and pain and conflict that does not write itself.
In my transition to home, Now kicks fiction every time.