Frances Klein
The man next to me on the MAX
–car is empty why so close–
clears his throat noisily and hocks spit onto the floor.
Something moves in the fluid,
–that a maggot what the hell–
then shudders, stills.
He clears his throat again
and my eyes slide back,
expecting to see white
writhing between chapped lips.
Then he’s nodding at my book
on Socratic learning, leaning in
–too close too close too close–
confidentially to tell me,
“Socrates was a frog, you know.”
–frog can’t be frog–
“A . . . fraud?”
A snort of derision, another
jet engine intake of mucus collected
and ejected into the puddle at his feet.
Crushed carapace glint
in the fluorescent lights.
–jesus mary and joseph oh christ–
“Yeah, that too, I guess.”
He sniffs a wayward antenna
back up one nostril,
wipes on his sleeve, coughs.
“I never could figure out how that frog motherfucker got so famous.”
–saying frog not fraud frog–
He leans his head back,
apparently content with the course
our conversation has run.
The vent above us
starts wheezing heat and he murmurs
with pleasure, rolling up his sleeves
to reveal hair covered arms.
–barbed those hairs are barbed what tarantula shit –
It slow opens one eye
to fix on me again, smile spreading,
translucent film hammocked
between row after row
–too many too many so many too many–
of needle teeth.
“This right here’s the best spot. Get that vent goin’, feels like the fuckin’ swamp in here.”
I sit past the end of the line,
book long since fallen from my hand.
Inchoate fear and unseasonal sweat
web me to the slick plastic seat
as it wallows in the humidity,
–no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no-
ecstatic, obscene.
“Yeah man, I tell ya, feels just like home.”
FRANCES KLEIN is a high school English teacher. She was born and raised in Southeast Alaska, and taught in Bolivia and California before settling in Indianapolis with her husband Kris. She has been published in GFT Press, and Molotov Cocktail, among others.