On A Subway

The face was quite like I imagined
appearing close to the subway door;
and I, so very shy, thought you would
never remember me; now that I had
a larger frame, and wrinkles under my
scanty brows, tears that still flow
without much warning to give me away;
I would have to tell you how your hair
smelled like pine tar and your skin like
starchy linen in the heat of a sweat.

...and so this is how we never met?
passing up a jaunt to Queens once we reached
the stop in the Bronx. It didn’t matter-
thunder rumbled the screeching brakes
rain swallowing your image,
the wind filtered the smell while your
face was only the ghost of a dream thinking
maybe I should have gone to Jersey after all.