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Locals On a Streetcar in Germany

Nicholas Nelson

A woman speaks to her child in a stroller, 

organizing clothes across the little one. 

The child stares at her, not understanding the words said, blinking.

An elderly woman, cane in one hand, 

boards the cars, brown bag with

celery stalks, fresh bread, and eggs.

She trips, eggs falling, cracking

in the carton. 

Near me stands a bald man holding the loop above his head. 

We wars a black leather coat. He smells like raw fish.

A male student taps his knees, mutters lyrics I don't understand, 

peering at the woman and child. I watch him watching. 

A female student with a purple backpack crouches, 

lifts the older woman's arm, collects the groceries. 

The eggs placed in the bag, meet at the bottom in 

brown splotches. 

The child, like all of us, stares, not understanding, blinking. 

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