aayoungif the silence of your life
gave way to the hotel lobby
of an indie film
this is the raining frame
when night begins to blur into
a paul simon tune
streaks of taxi cab light
clear flashes of his face above yours
dark skin
red shoes running
on a wet platform
barely making a train
back to the real world
suitcase with stories to tell
hair soaking
trench coat concealing
a body sore
still shaking beside his
your hand
hiding
a smile
but helpless
to conceal
mascara tears
listen jack
love songs don’t interest me
i’ve been on the train too long
and i’m tired of being kissed
we can be everything to each other
but make no mistake
it can’t ever matter
with no less than a hundred other places
he could have planted himself
the well-dressed septuagenarian in the suit
sits down directly beside
my london fog
in the starkness of the 3 a.m. train station
his bones
and the wooden bench
making similar creaking noises
as he settles
“Isn’t it crazy you can only catch a train back east in this town at 3:30 in the damn morning?”
as he rifles a jacket pocket to no avail
i sigh and say,
“It is Cincinnati…notoriously late for everything.”
he nods and gives and extra suck to his throat lozenge
the sense of intrusion fading
my mind performing jubilant cartwheels
because he just said
back east
as if people actually say
back east
suddenly feeling grateful for his warmth
in the surgical sterility
of the vacuous art deco room
where it somehow manages
to be 1939
save the pay phones
ripped from their booths
wires dangling from the walnut walls
folding doors half open
glass still covered
in fingerprints
gaping victims of technology and time
other passengers hailing from the depression era
begin filing in
with too much luggage
and too many children
my eyes find a small amber feather
on the side of his exquisite olive fedora
as he asks
“Why a train? You look more like the jet set type…”
“Too afraid to fly…you?”
“Too old to drive and too poor to fly. Where you going, miss? I’m Karl.”
“All the way to Penn Station, Karl. 17 hours. My name is Alicia.”
we shake hands
“Me too. What do you do for a living, if I may?”
“I write angry poems and perform them in front of people.”
“You gonna write an angry poem about me?”
“No, but I do plan to write about those Cordovan boots you’re wearing…”
he laughs at the floor
shaking his head at my knowing
“You are a poet.”
i smile a century
“What do you do?”
“I play the trumpet.”
“You gonna play a song about me?”
“You’re damn right I am…and those heels you’re wearing…”
“You ever walked down the ramp to the platform here before? They may have been a bad choice…”
“So steep it’s like you’re going to hell. Well, tonight we can go together.”
my train stopped
at the charleston station
it’s a long stop
which means the nicotine fiends
had time to step off
for a smoke
on hopped a beautiful lesbian
who hadn’t shaved her legs
since gerald ford’s administration
she took the seat beside me as we began to roll
then revealed her life
and a doctorate in theology
when i reciprocated
she explained there was a name
for what i am
a conceptual atheist
someone who believes, if there is a god,
we cannot possibly understand it
by virtue of being it’s creation
such hubris
it is the same scenario as a microorganism
staring back up through
the microscope
and claiming to know the thoughts and will of
the scientist observing it
you are the reason
the wright brothers took flight
you are the reason
the chicago & rock island railroad
dared to cross the mississippi
you are the reason henry ford
leaned over a drawing board
sketching models a to t
the gods knew
one day
we would require them
to carry you to me
you are the reason
daedalus fashioned
a pair of wings
you are the reason
icarus fell into the sea
it was my fifteenth hour
headed north
on the cardinal route
a leaving delaware delirium
resting uncomfortably
in the lack of a sleeping car
back when jersey still had a shore
the train tracks were skimming us
toward a crashing nighttime death
in the black atlantic
sharks approach silently with their teeth
out the window
my eyes found
an iron bound
bridge glaring back at me
stretching the width of the garden state
wearing a red neon garter
as a sign
reading,
“Trenton makes, the world takes…”
and i knew then
all was lost
it was the september
of not wanting
to know more
when i ask
myself
why
i went
to such great lengths
traveling to your place in the world
the answer comes with absolution
it wasn’t
because
i was in love
the poet within me
just needed a reason
to ride a train into the city