The curve of arm in train windows reveals age:
Strained and taut means a body ambitious but not yet tall enough to comfortably reach the hand rests suspending from a horizontal bar against the ceiling.
Loose and carelessly propped through like a handcuff swinging with the curvaceous track is a sign of youth lived thoughtlessly and yet.
Right-angled and tight however is the first proper defiance against the forward thrust of a train moving faster and faster to where we do not always want to go.
It seems growing up is about learning to let go,
except we became afraid.
We worked too hard to grow,
bone and joint pushing inch by inch past blindness and the insecurity of leering space to grasp a promise of freedom from the violent lurching of a lack of anticipation.
We work too hard to stay upright and away from the dust at our feet,
all start from fingers reaching to curl around red handles only to develop a white-knuckled vice grip screaming
through the darkness of a tunnel.
We are afraid of bends and rounds and circles and so we locked curves out of our arms for comfortable blindness.
The doors will open though,
and all that remains constant will be a row of hand rests
just waiting for arms
to learn the curve of death.