Terminal

At the end of the line,
Coney Island and Stillwell,
There is plenty of time
and there is no time.
The wait for your next train
to assemble itself uptown.
You’ve shown me the works
In the conductor’s car already,
After waiting outside
The employee lounge for you
On the second floor, staring at
The bright summer sea,
what ride I believe to be
The parachute jump.
But that’s all past now.
I’ll be gone for months.
It’s our fourth date,
I will solidify the all-along
plans to move here,
And at some point we’ll bid goodbye.
But I’ve learned already that
the sweethearts’ sweet sorrow
parting is not for us. The pizza store
is for hellos, not goodbyes.
You never release me to the day
without escorting me home
Or at least to the last possible
subway stop before we part
company. And now we’re sitting
in an empty car near your booth
As you rattle off random transit trivia.
You smile your tufty mustachioed grin
and talk about your shift, jerk your
head out the window through to the
terminal silently populating,
you look around, rattle off a fact
and another fact, dart your eyes,
and quietly admit, “I can kiss you now.”
I couldn’t spit back your train factoids
if a gun were to my head, but when the
coarse lip hair grazes my lips, I can
name and taxonomize every scent,
touch, thought, and permutation
of each that hits my senses.
This kiss must do. You cannot do
PDAs in uniform.
You never kiss me in public
at all except at the pizza store
Or whenever we’re alone.
When the train runs and you shift
into conductor mode, the last goodbye
Is a swift acknowledgement
At the booth window,
Gone as soon as it is delivered.

You, you are more practical.
You can live without the
proper lovers’ parting embrace.
You’ve just always wanted to know
I was riding your train.
I want to believe, always,
That you’ll sense me on the other side
Of the car door, knowing and acknowledging
What’s what and where it’s all going,
Feeling the same turns and rumbles
Of everything moving forward.