The Gare de Lyon is the place, if you’re going to miss a train,
to miss it. If there is a reason to miss it, what could be a better one
than kissing, more kissing, and too much red wine.
But really, it was first question he asked, two days before,
that started the branching universe toward the empty tracks:
Did I want to take a bath? Alone, that is. To rinse away the journey.
A clawfoot tub beneath an attic window: how many clichés about Paris
can one poem bear? My body hovered just under the surface,
the first time in months it had known warm water, known warmth.
Neither he nor the poem know that hours before, a stranger
began to undress me as I slept—departing, interrupted, only
when another traveler clattered through the sliding door.
If there is a moment to miss a train, let it begin with a kindness.
The Gare de Lyon is the place, if you’re going to miss a train,
to miss it. If there is a reason to miss it, what could be a better one
than kissing, more kissing, and too much red wine.
But really, it was first question he asked, two days before,
that started the branching universe toward the empty tracks:
Did I want to take a bath? Alone, that is. To rinse away the journey.
*****
A clawfoot tub beneath an attic window: how many clichés about Paris
can one poem bear? My body hovered just under the surface,
the first time in months it had known warm water, known warmth.
*****
Neither he nor the poem know that hours before, a stranger
began to undress me as I slept—departing, interrupted, only
when another traveler clattered through the sliding door.
*****
If there is a moment to miss a train, let it begin with a kindness.
