Although they don’t make open roads these days,
we traveled in, metaphorically,
a metered freedom, riding in the sway
of subway cars and feeling on our cheeks.
the dank and fetid breeze that whipped our hair
in streamers like the ribbons on a pole
We weren’t the children who had cared
we once had cared
to look inside our bowls.
and find the last small spoons of cereal
that swam inside the milky sudsy mess—
a breakfast cannot be that lyrical—
that long ago had once been three times blessed
by father’s gracious words that rose and sighed.
At present, having found our god, desire,
we rode in trains beneath the ground: our pride
ran down our words.
Our only conversation was the song
of your old coat that pressed itself in time
along my hands—your swaying led me on—
I might have spoken, had I thought in rhyme.