The vinyl hasn’t changed,
it’s still uncomfortable, sticky,
and has the lingering odour of people
(I will never know).
The motion— jerky— erratic.
The frosted windows— still fogging from human
heat, though the temptation to curl my hand
up, press it against the cool condensation,
then peel my warm fist— carefully— away, and
tickle fingertips across the cool surface
drawing awkward toes,
no longer tempts me.
There is no longer a need, nor is there space,
for imprints of premature feet.