They boarded at the Powell stop, I think –
a mixed-race pair with bags. Each held a spliff
they didn’t light. I looked up from my ink,

and met his eyes with neutral gaze – no tiff
or judgment in me, and he placed his pack
beside me, in a vacant seat, as if

he meant no harm or insult. It was black
and clean, and he’d a shopping bag as well.
A woman boarded next, and gave him flack

but in a friendly way – a little spell
of joking shit, the games young people play.
They knew each other, far as I could tell.

And then we traveled underneath the bay.
They signaled they’d detrain at Oakland West,
and gathered in an exiting array.

He swung the shopping bag with playful zest.
They followed out its up trajectory,
and left behind the backpack. No one guessed

that was deliberate (very doubtful). We
yelled “Hey, your bag,” just as the train door closed.
By then I’d moved the pack in front of me,

and shot this picture where it now reposed.
To terrorism there appeared no link.
I shrugged at three, and left while others dozed.