The guy next to me on the train

is listening to Nirvana

and sticking out his chin

in time to the bass drum

quite like a rooster does

when he’s looking to mate.

He smells like deep fry and ashtray

and has dog hair on the thighs

of his stone-washed jeans.

I wonder if he thinks Cobain

would be his friend

if only he could resurrect him.

I tap my Converse sneaker

in synchronicity with his chin thrust

and mumble sun destroys the night,

night divides the day.

When we stop

we go our different ways.