Love Train

My bowl brimming with pretzels,

the snack you wanted least,

I slid open the door of our sleeping car

where we had been enjoying the country rushing by,

as if   we were the first two people

to look down into the valleys and see

bright necks of pines stretch across farms

and streams to the groves they once cradled.

You had asked for Earl Grey cookies

sandwiched around buttercream or marshmallows

made of chocolate, but all the tea bags had been dunked

and the chocolate melted over biscotti.

When I came bearing the salted and twisted news,

the room was empty but for a heel. It was black

as a bunting, and wound with zippers,

and every time the car rocked

it looked ready to fly and escape

into the cold, tangled air

of   travel that always feels heavy

with joy and desire, and a little sadness,

always a little sadness,

because of the leaving, which is what I do

when I realize I’m in the wrong room

and that numbers have betrayed me again

while I was hunting and gathering,

foraging like Homo habilis

who probably never lost his cave.

Out of patience, I opened every door

marked with threes and eights, those conjoined twins

disastrously separated at birth,

and roused the scabbed eyes of sleepers

like a beggar, no, an angel,

a begging angel who has written on his heart

will work for love.

Having not found our room, not heard

the sharp swing of   your voice,

I descended upon the passenger cars

and row upon row of couples asleep

or staring out the windows like zombies

trying to remember what happens next

once the newspaper is well-thumbed,

the tea has gone cold, and the conversation is dead.

I called for you, in vain, even using your secret names,

the ones only the night knows:

wind-kiss, brilliant-fruit, dervish-moon    . . .

Over and over, I said your names,

over and over until they filled

the wounded air of  the car

and when there was no more room

for another sound, they caught and hooked

the ring of   the brakes hugging the rails.

Just when I thought I wouldn’t find you,

you were there, the train was pulling away,

and I was watching you slowly eat

a dish of whipped cream and bananas

— the house special — in a cafe

in a city we didn’t know.

When you finished, we started walking

down a road that bent like a smile,

a shy smile, like the one the Japanese cat wore

on your purse. The road, we were told,

would take us to the end of   the line

where all lovers in search of   joy

packed on bullet trains — they’re the fastest

on two continents — arrive every hour.