|Jan/Feb 2008 Poetry|
You've been here before, as the bend
leans out of the train's way.
A rose centers your table.
You could be on the Orient Express,
headed for adventure.
A woman could enter the dining car
at any time, the chair
across from you available.
Like a couple sharing the same hammock,
you would be immediately drawn
towards each other. She would love
Yeats. You would admire
You would move to the suburbs
with her, scrawl your names together
in wet concrete.
Even as you step on the platform
of this, the last station,
you glance for her in all
directions, your suitcases
planted by your feet on the platform
expectantly, like two dachshunds
waiting for their mistress
to fetch them home.