Complex
Richard Fein
Squashed against the doors I hoped wouldn't fly open, I
was condemned to stand for twenty stations, but there were
compensations,
for after the dark tunnel a view exploded.
Usual sunset business.
Of course being pubescent what I really wanted
was a glimpse of an intimate bedroom scene
from one of the houses that seemed to wobble by.
But the subway was passing at dinnertime,
too early for lawful connubial bliss,
too late for adultery, with husbands home soon.
A line of two family homes, with kitchen lights and aproned women.
A hairpin curve, squeaking brakes, we stopped.
There, fifty feet away, beyond the chasm of door to window,
I saw one of my first loves.
Oh, she was fully clothed, any undressing was in my mind.
About my age. We swapped smiles. She turned her face from side to
side
as if modeling. She could have. Pretty.
The car door parted. I floated
across the gulf, to her bedroom window, almost.
A sudden jerk, I fell on a muscular shoulder.
An annoyed stare robbed me of my last look.
The train made its turn around the curve,
and each passing car was in turn bathed by her bedroom light.
I noted the place and for the next three weeks
happened to be walking down that street.
But the Hollywood coincidence didn't occur, almost never does.
Boy, the time I wasted when I was young!
Years after, in fact just last week, with wife and child in the car,
I managed a wrong turn. Behold! The street!
They asked me where I was going; I didn't really know.
I knew the house had long since been demolished;
a towering co-op complex now casts its shadow on the turning tracks.
