[maryland] on the 7:20 train

Somewhere north of Washington, we pause. From my window, the thin woods of central Maryland are deeply green under morning sun. Across the aisle, a freight train passes in flashes of blue-black and rust and gold. It clangs rhythmically and no one speaks. In my bag I carry a passport with a new visa to west Africa, a covered bowl of warm oatmeal, yesterday’s blue dress. Remember this: the hey, are you awakes of early morning, a mug of coffee in the old diesel car, the late spring heat still unbroken by rain. An afternoon secreted away in a museum. His height is new to me; I take his hand somewhere in the marble corridor and pull it behind my back.