all the ducks lined up behind a glass window. chickens too. poultry roasted with soy, and they all hang in the windows. as a child, my father would buy a bird, all chopped up, in these elegant horizontal pieces, to add to the dinner my mother prepared. sometimes he would buy a bird, especially when he was feeling guilty, but thought he could get away with whatever it was, because look, he bore a gift.

these birds were delicious. 

after a while, he'd buy the bird, but then leave right after dinner to do whatever it was that he wanted, that he was making a small penance for, with a bird. then he started leaving before dinner was over. then, he started just buying the bird, and leaving, after he made the trip home to deliver it to our table. 

and then my mother got sick, so our parents just asked us to go buy a bird ourselves for dinner, from the local place.

today, i watched a woman standing in the corner of the train. she was old. her hair was badly dyed. she stood in the corner, with her bags around her sneaker covered feet. she had a white plastic take out container in her hand, full of bird, and she ate from it, like it was a plate, like she was hungry the way a child is hungry when eating dinner late at night, unwatched and ignored, and left to his solitary devices to eat. and she ate. she was a gaunt woman. and she liked her food. it tasted good, slipped from the corner of her little rectangle container. she slipped the pieces into her mouth, and chewed, and pulled the little bird bones from her mouth, and cupped them as she ate.

the trains door opened. some more strangers got on, so she stopped eating, and put away her food. then i had nothing else to watch.

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i did a lot of waiting. things don't come. the train does, sometimes.

tired here, and tired there. whiskey is not my friend, it's just a drink poured on ice to have.