It’s only on trains now
that I see backstage,
the backside of paint-peeled
buildings, battened doors
and crooked blinds,
the dimly lit life,
the tall amber ashtray
a few wooden stairs.
I’ve seen you in that kitchen,
a cat on your lap
in the old rocking chair,
your shoulders turned slightly,
your long auburn hair.
I could meet you in that kitchen
to drink whatever tea you offer
on whatever day we dare.
If you’d like I’ll smoke with you
a bowl or two as you sing
and dance slowly round the room.
I’ll sit backwards on a corner chair
in my long coat and boots,
my arms on the back in the low broken light
of your brass lamp’s torn yellow shade.
Ask me why it took so long
and I’ll gladly sing my own sad song--
it’s been one damn thing after another.
Feed me spaghetti and wine
if you’re feeling warm
and I’ll wash up and draw heat
to my shoulders and chest
til it softens inside and
I lose track of time
and bend easily into your arms.