Words With Friends

Oakland is full of fog.
The lights in the BART parking lot turn into christmas lights from this vantage. Tiny points through the trees.
I end up sitting backwards on the train. At least I'm sitting. Even during this slow workweek, it's standing room only.
As we roll out of the downtown tunnel, the grafitti soaked soundwalls along the freeway pop up and fade away.
It's mostly tags: "Anemea", "Old Crow", "PSYKO."
"I'm anonymous, invisible, but here's my name," is what tags say to me.
Pissing on walls, marking territory. Hell, it's yours, man. Have at it. I bet no one disputes it.
I'm having a hard time with this "Words with Friends" play. I got nothing but vowels.
Lots of high value consonants I can handle, it's difficult but the payoff is good. But a tray full of "I" will leave me gasping.
I look over and I can see the screen of the girl sitting next to me that just got on at West Oakland.
She's texting. Somebody's message pops up, huge (this girl must have vision issues.)
"I'm so mad" the person on the other end of the text says,
"I can't handle it that Ruben got killed. I'm gonna kill the dude that killed him."
The girl blinks at that text for a second, and then replies, her bare thumb pulled out of her pink glove going like gangbusters.
"Who is Ruben?" she texts.