Minnesota Ice Train

Some men who are at least fifty-five

wake up in the night to touch their sex

like patting the family dog on the head.

Others rise to pace the square of   their den

as if  called to guard duty. Still others

peer back at me from their bedroom windows

as if  on lookout for some lost shipment

to arrive from Bitterroot, Montana.

I uncurl in bed listening for the 3 AM train

to whip through Wayzata, hugging the lake

so close I imagine it could skip the hot rails

and skid across the ancestral ice toward me,

an ice train come to ferry me home or away

from my encircling command or back to some

earlier time when I too was more fiercely

racing the night, my body clamorous thumping,

the windows rattling, the length of me

moon-drenched, snow falling, sparks raking

my wheels, one more town flown through.