1022 to New Haven

Harlem 125 disappearing behind me,
swallowed in darkness.

Manual whispering in my ears.
Float away with me.
Up into the cool, black sky
where stars gather and marvel
at the crescent earth.

I type under synthetic light
ash on my tongue.
A couple
with well worn wedding bands
nod off together,
a 50 year habit
that can’t be broken.

The conductor owns the aisles,
confident strides.
Anticipating every rattle and quake
with feline grace.

Noroton Heights
cracks over the intercom.
Sounds like Noronites.
Hairy Ann is next
It’s supposed to be
Darien.

The gentle turbulence
always reassures me

I’m going home.