another fisherman

i see you, brother, pen in hand.
i feel the furrow in your brow.
tapping your pen expectantly
against the blank white space
you cradle in your palm.
i know. i'm searching for it, too-
inside fluorescent lights,
within the rhythm of the rails,
etched in the face of every new arrival.

i study you. you study us.
the shape
her sleeping face
has carved into my shoulder.
these newer trains, they feel like hospitals
blue and polished.
the words are harder to come by
than in those old orange carriages.

it does not come.
you look angry
(i feel guilty. i've been bleeding into notebooks.
i come close to opening my mouth, to lending you
a sentence, just to help you on your way.
nothing comes out.
i tell myself it's just because i do not want to wake her.
but, really,
i am greedy.)