People at the Florin regional transit station stare at me. Some laugh and point. I stand close to the tracks, walking up and down the platform, where people board the trains.

Aluminum cans, paper cups and plates and bags, cigarette butts and boxes, used condoms, RT passes and sheets of newspaper, and plastic anything stick duct taped to my body. The world, shotgun blast plastered and chained to my arms and legs and torso, flutters when the trains pass.

“Hey, man. Why you got all that trash on you?” some guy asks me.

I rotate, my back to the train people are boarding, and look at him through the eye holes in my ski mask.

“You look like a trash mummy,” another guy says, exhaling cigarette smoke.

“A shit mummy,” another guy says, laughing hysterically.

Something hits me in the head and shoulder and rattles against the pavement at my feet. I look down. A beer can rolls away and disappears off the edge of the platform, falling into the gravel.

Another guy laughs and asks, “You trying to get money?”

I shake my head and watch a girl near the water fountains at the other end of the platform change her baby and leave the diaper on the ground. She talks on the phone and pushes the stroller to the soda machine.

I close my eyes and sigh and move closer to the water fountains. 

They laugh and shout and holler as I tape the diaper to my chest.