Rail Yard

At the cancer treatment center,
An old acquaintance spotted you,
Acquaintance from healthier days

For you both, and he shook your hand.
Then his caretaker shook your hand.
Then, waiting in an exam room,

You thought of your oncologist
Who always shakes your hand, and then
Of the whole sequence of handshakes,

And you imagined the one-celled
Free riders riding each hand shake
Like boxcars in a switching yard.

How ancient their lineages,
How long their acquaintance with skin,
How recent, like boxcars, handshakes.

The game of barely hanging on
Until the opportunity
To seek fresh opportunities

Is so incredibly older
Than you, any of your customs,
Any of your kind. And you saw

Yourself as brief intersections,
You and all your interactions,
A jostling of quick encounters

Through which small lives and long games poured
As the moments afforded them.
Your oncologist shook your hand.