Station

Days you are sick, we get dressed slow,

find our hats, and ride the train.

We pass a junkyard and the bay,

then a dark tunnel, then a dark tunnel.

You lose your hat. I find it. The train

sighs open at Burlingame,

past dark tons of scrap and water.

I carry you down the black steps.

Burlingame is the size of joy:

a race past bakeries, gold rings

in open black cases. I don’t care

who sees my crooked smile

or what erases it, past the bakery,

when you tire. We ride the blades again

beside the crooked bay. You smile.

I hold you like a hole holds light.

We wear our hats and ride the knives.

They cannot fix you. They try and try.

Tunnel!

Into the dark open we go.

Days you are sick, we get dressed slow.