These metal doors slide open wide
for a pair of camel pleather booties.

It is the train to Montmorency,
Ligne Orange.

My thoughts fly through thick proofed windows.
They land on the darkened tracks,
disappearing under the wheels
before I even knew they left me.

I live up north,
you said to me once.
The letters of the past, postmarked from London:
I was once so eager to pencil in your address
and lick the envelopes shut.
Now I can get off the train to Montmorency,
Ligne Orange
right to your door.
Is it Sauvé?
Or Crémazie?
I will never know.
I will never want to know.

I turn around instead and board for
Ligne Orange.