Something in the air

I see our collective breath,
not because the train is cold,
but because it has fogged up all of the windows.
If I were to wipe my hand across a pane,
would I collect the moisture of a child’s goodbye kiss,
or of a dog’s panting by a front door,
or the heat of breakfast toast?
Could I have an embrace on my fingertips,
or a cup of tea, or tears?
I once cooked a pot of soup all day
without the lid on.
I told my family, as we sat down to meagre bowls,
the soup was in the air,
but maybe the carrots had seeped into our skin
and given us a healthy complexion,
and maybe the blackbirds out back
had their wings lightly scented with rosemary.
I will get off the train soon, humidified,
steeped in the rich broth of other people’s lives,
an invisible eau de vie.