Yokohama Station, the door opening, people streaming out like rain.
I stand and look in, will I sit or will I stand?
A foreign woman looks at me and smiles.
Behind my face mask, the white woman sees her kin.
She raises her hand as to high five.
And through my jacket she touches my skin, gives me a tender, yet short kiss, as she leaves the train.
She has no mask, dressed in leather and black.
Passing quickly, leaving me baffled, I take a seat to ride home, on a Corona emptied train.
the kiss was metaphysical, but felt.