Member Poem

I’m at the station, election night,
addled with speeches, argued out
a train whistles by and my eyes

something, on the retina, an image—

in the train, a woman, her child
muffler round her neck, black hair, a smile

and that’s all I saw, the flashing
of the lights from the windows
but this woman

the hum of electricity sits in the air,
dissipates with the memory
of the train
leaves a delicious softness
unexpected

I go home, we make love

Previously published in "How to Win at King's Cross" (erbacce press)