Dirt Waxes, Newness Wanes

The train stand by my place is no longer new. the grooves in the anti-slip pavement are browned with dirt, the platform edge's fascia is stained in blooms of mold or perhaps where most people step on or off. The funk is collecting fast, litter is present in the cars now, although Houston evil-doers have not yet learned how to scritch-scratch their messages into the plexiglas. There seems to be a bit more up and down vibration at the car picks up speed; it makes me feel somewhat seasick; I wonder how true the rail-bed will stay in Houston's shifting soil. They can hardly keep the streets from buckling in the heat and random subsidence. The train's internal sign points the wrong way to the exit at McGowen; the announcer lady still makes Bell Street sound like Bill. Despite it being the first night of the rodeo, the train is largely empty northbound at nine. The trains are running doubled up in anticipation of the traffic.