I saw four of your front teeth are left as your head lolled back with your mouth wide open. You're not unlike the toddlers I just spent time with. But unlike you and me they're new to this world. Their very first teeth cutting through. They can start eating bitable food. I have no idea when you last ate. You were sitting in the middle of the walkway, on the train platform. Rickety, made up of joints and a wide-swinging stare, a perpetually canted head, you made it onto the train.
Though I didn't want to look I saw you operate a lighter well-enough to put a flame underneath some tinfoil. You inhaled and exhaled the smoke.
When you were two years old were you dirty and neglected then, too? Or was someone handing you bits of food, repeating "What do you say? 'Please.'" to start preparing you for a certain world, accessible down a certain path. And your clothes were changed and when you sat in the middle of a walkway someone was there to pick you up.
I tried to have a conversation with the train operator about you. Because I don't know what you were smoking and I don't know how it will make you act while we're all trying to get home or get away from work or get high like you in the privacy of not-a-train.
You wandered off the train at a stop. Effectively ending that conversation.
But I saw you.