Locomotive Dream


Dinner on the Amtrak train
between Portland and Tacoma
is a microwaved burrito, but

at least it’s vegan. I gnaw
half-frozen beans and dream
of a different tableau: tables covered
with linen cloths, gilded platters,
elegant silverware. Fantasy meal

for two with a view of fields,
rolling its cartoon reels
between glamorous locales.

Instead, I lean against the wall
to peer through cracked windows,
while stunted lines of mini marts
sprout like mushrooms from

sidewalk cracks. In fifty minutes,
the train will deposit me
at Tacoma Dome Station, and
passengers will scatter like ants,
anonymous and frantic.

Outside, a boy plays solo
on the sidewalk. A stray dog wanders
across the street, looking for
something he lost that afternoon.

America in the twenty-first century:
how swiftly it runs without arriving.



Classical Performance

In the shadows of
a high school auditorium,
in a closet above the stage
during a Shakespeare play,

I experienced
“heavy petting”
for the first time.

I could hear the actors
reciting their lines
in stentorian tones.
My boyfriend groped

inside my shirt, as we
tongued each other like
melting ice cream cones.

“Your mood ring must
be changing into all
sorts of colors,” he said,

as he slid his hand down my pants.
After our finale,

we climbed down the ladder
to bow for the audience, but
they had already gone home.