cars on the wet road, 
swiftly as if slapping the surface with their tires. 
cold air enters the small bathroom window 
facing the intersection
this morning
pushing soft waves of hair into my face. 
a freight train close enough
reverberates between memories on the island platform.
from when I can remember, we always lived near a train. 
I’ve learned to tune it out, or rather— the passing
has been swallowed by the internal clock of life, and carried 
to the stretch of poland street back when palmettos ruled the streets.
if I ask myself more seriously: the red truck, the beige house, 
have always painted the bathroom window.
each time, I turn the corner,
the faded ice cream truck across the park reminds me of spies,
watching life play out in solitary 
against the cardboard backdrop.

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Cynthia Via writes fiction, poetry and essays from the comfort of her attic. Her work appears in Yellow Arrow, The Acentos Review, Angel City Review, Write or Die, Grace & Gravity Anthology, Coffin Bell Journal, among others. She is a graduate of the Tin House and the VONA Voices Workshops. Most recently, served as submission reader and editor for Trio House Press. In her free time, she spies on birds, ice skates and does stand-up as therapy. Find her on IG: @nekoenlaluna and cynthiavia.bsky.social