see it on me
i held her hand in the darkness
on a pink queen mattress
from the discount store,
the one with gold edged furniture
and bunk beds with painted metal frames.
now we’re up in the dark
coffee in an army green thermos,
boots that are hard to pull on.
a kiss at the door.
sometimes in the pitch
i can hear the train whistle.
for decades now, the rush down the track.
children still asleep
and i’m writing this.
you can’t see it on me
but it’s sifted all over,
like fine night.