Doors

Another me, somewhere, is wondering
Why the train doors just closed in front of him.
Instead I wonder if, upon some whim,
He, in the midst of verbal thundering
Against the fates, whose blinded blundering
Left him to freeze, is, with a certain dim
Insight, or with a frigid kind of grim
Insistence born out of the sundering
Created by the doors, between what's warm
And him, beginning suddenly to write
About a figure, like in every way
To him, in person, body, mind, and form,
Except for this: that on this very night
He got into the train and rode away.