For My Lover

Here it comes, the fish in the visual net.

I have waited for you.

I see by the sleeping cars in the rear that you are 92 The Silver Star, from Florida, bound for New York City.

Your trip ends at the travesty that’s called Penn Station.

Its shattered and pillaged predecessor was broken and carted away to a marsh in New Jersey. Now modernity squats over Mr. Cassat’s subterranean tracks, function surviving, beauty cast aside.

But you, indifferent 92, glide along, bearing the grandchildren of the warriors, now dreaming their own dream of America, their loved ones at the journey’s end, a meal perhaps with familiar talk of plans for Sunday.

Museum? Brunch? Flea Market? Television? Golf?

There could be love tonight, what the coarse, but accurate, would call a fuck.

Elysium, for some, and others a chore, with the wish, under the breath, that the visitor would simply roll off, sleep, then get back on the train.