Upon Seeing T.S. Eliot in the London Underground 1 I thought I saw you today.

Our carriage jerked as we slowed into Picadilly
and you stood up, newspaper in hand, watching travel,
theater and Internet discounts flickering through the window,
a screen projecting a kaleidoscope of nervous patterns—
I noticed that your trouser bottoms were rolled,
probably because of the rain outside.
Your long beige trench coat flapped
as you made your way to the sliding door,
and you looked as if you wished it would engulf you,
at least until the crowd would.
You began to stroke your hair nervously,
fingers pausing at the middle,
where it seemed a bit thinner than the rest.
The woman sitting across from me uncrossed, crossed her legs,
and you glanced at her leather boots. I imagined that
the way the light bounced thickly off the shiny black
reminded you of the stars and the moon smeared against
the yellow fog of the London evening sky.
The conductor announced the stop over the intercom,
the doors slid open, and you stepped out
into the crowd, disappearing into the flood.
I wondered if I should follow,
if I should ask you to coffee or tea,
but there was no time for indecisions,
for visions or revisions,
and so I let you fade
into your corners of the evening.