On the night train to Cleveland elder couples
play cards in twos, Amish boys lurk in the shadows
of their hats, while the rest doze amid
the sweet-potato scent of bodies asleep in numbers.
I tiptoe back to my berth, its itchy starched sheets
and foot-operated sink, its greasy flashing mirror, wishing
you were here to curl up beneath the flicker of passing casino
lights, to do the things we call love when it’s night.