Michael Judd
The man across the aisle
swings his shoulders, twists to see
you cross, recross your legs. I glare,
you blush. A brush of wind: a tree,
a house dash by the train. We share
a worn, bare seat, a pile
of magazines, three
hours in the dark. You wear
that shirt, two sizes small, and smile
as lilting high school students stare,
their fingers fishing pockets while
they measure you. We’ll be
at the junction soon: that’s where
we’ll snowball fight, you’ll iron, I’ll
rewire that lamp, you’ll stow a key
for me beneath the mat. One mile
to go, you close your eyes, leave me
to wake you when we’re there.
