I see her in still photographs
through the window of the train.
When I’m stepping off, she’s looking
a little in vain.
Because it doesn’t take me long to find her
and there’s a bumbling interaction.
A hug, a “hello” and she’s drifting
away, shuffling off, scurrying.
Her eyes told me she didn’t want to wait any longer.
On that platform, what thoughts go through her head?
And he’s already lighting a cigarette,
offering to carry my luggage and the rest.
She’s in close pursuit, overtaking us all.
“You’re too fast,” I say.
“Slow down,” I beg.
He finishes half a smoke.
The car still smells like him
and there’s a delay in the conversation,
like latency on the home phone.
I’m a kid again, on my tip toes,
holding and twirling the line.
They ask me how the train ride was.
We pick up some dinner, take out
and leave the shoes at the door.
They’re on the couch watching TV.
I feel like a new cat locked in the bathroom.
You have to get used to the tiles,
the bathmat and scratched up door,
then the couch, and the space and the kitchen floor,
before we can be with you.
