Maybe after all this time, we are still riding the R train.
Instead of the automatic doors, there is only a voice
that says PLEASE KEEP DOOR CLOSED after each stop.
I can see you lying on three seats. I can see your eyes
shiny from the extra shots, so cold and sexy, we had to
drain them with our lips. But where are we going now?
Are we going home, did you leave a book at school, what
are you in the mood for: Szechuan, Pancho’s or pizza?
Maybe that night that didn’t end, still hasn’t ended,
when you dipped like a toad into its hole from my embrace
and hid behind the column on the platform, we stayed
in the subway, at night and underground, and you ran
from me, like a child who knows his real mother, then
you took me, you took me here, to this, our black precipice.
Because there are handwritten signs that say Strawberries 4 Sale,
Love, I will stop along the road and buy us little hearts to eat.
And if, while driving on Snake Hill Road, there are Fresh Cut
Flowers and Strawberries (again) it will only take a moment
To gather a centerpiece for our table. (We’ll even eat shortcake).
Look, I see CUTE BUNNIES 4 SALE so I’ll stop here too
To get you the cutest one, a little cottontail to feed a carrot to
Every day, unless she too likes strawberries. Everywhere,
Strawberries 4 Sale. Along Windy Tor and Forest Hill Road,
Where summers we visit my parents, only twice we’ve stepped
Foot at an Amish stand. Twice. But lately, I wonder
What it feels like to fly down the long winding road
In a buggy, and waving to the blonde boy in his father’s lap,
He must be wondering the same about us speeding down
The lane, passing him, our faces sweet and sticky and brown.