|Going Home on the Yellow Line
March 25, 2020
(Response to a drawing
by Carol Morgan)
She first catches his eye at baggage claim:
they reach for the same anonymous bag;
he says, Excuse me, they all look the same.
Their flights were both red-eyes, both are dead tired,
confused and bemused, both suffer jet lag.
He offers his help—by good manners required.
They walk together toward Yellow line trips;
she doesn’t say where; he to his bachelor pad.
Jammed by the rush hour, they sit hip to hip.
Her body leans toward him, falling asleep,
her head on his shoulder—he’s startled but glad.
I should wake her he thinks but gives not a peep.
Fort Totten, his stop; he sits still, doesn’t move;
aroused by her warmth, the touch of her thigh,
his thought fantasizes—sex, maybe love.
The stop at Prince Georges jars her awake;
she looks out the window, utters a cry:
I missed my transfer, I’ve got to go back!
Trailing her luggage, she slips through the door–
his reverie ends, idyllic dreams die,
depression descends, he stares at the floor.