When the door folds shut

it’s like a confessional,

this bright box of light

sucked dry of air —

a toilet, a basin,

and me in the mirror’s broad expanse,

barely a foot from nose to nose.

Here I’m obliged to own up

to the sins of my face, my hands,

marked and veined like leaves

under the neon’s steady interrogation,

the imperfect physiognomy I seldom reflect upon,

which may one day be used

to identify this, my body,

just for the record,

before I take it with me

to the grave’s secret warmth,

tighter even than these cramped quarters.
Outside, in the cushioned darkness,

sleeping passengers are sprawled like refugees

as x-ray figures from the 2 a.m. film

flicker through closed lids.

I wash my hands, one over another,

wiping fingerprints from the mirror

and droplets from the basin’s edge,

errant traces of other lonely encounters

up here in the black gaps between stars.