season ticket

A woman in the seat in front hummed.
With the train's tune sometimes,
sometimes in opposition,
always there though.
If words like muted are permitted on
commuter trains then that's how she hummed.
Through the tempting slit in the seats
her hands held each other,
rarely moved, seemed neither at ease nor uneasy,
just glad to have a  hold.
The window didn't figure, its offered fields,
hills, houses, city contours,
nor its refractions, cctv snatches of parallel libidos.
I found myself wondering when I'd last been kissed.

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