At the Station

We walked through the wide cavern of Grand Central
it made me feel small, swallowed,
like Pinocchio must have felt in the whale’s belly.

you talked quietly to yourself,
of things you wished you had done:
you had never been to the top
of the World Trade Center
before it had all disappeared
and you had never found a reason
to stay in the city of anonymity

I looked up at the ceiling.
a sea of turquoise embellished with gold figures:
mythical, astrological.
little light bulbs designated
where the stars in the actual constellations were

I stared at a dust bunny that raced across the floor
and bounded over my untied shoelace
another bunny appeared and the two started to dance,
their choreographed motions circling
round and round a few inches away from where your backpack lay

your fingertips grazed my cheek
“Sera, Sera, Sera”
murmuring, creating your own mantra

we rose then, and you took my hand
as we walked to find your track.
we walked slowly and silently
along the dirty silver and orange red bullet,
passing doorway after doorway.
I read the overhead advertisements for painkillers and phone companies,
energy drinks and condoms
“are we going to walk until the train ends?”

you abruptly stopped and shook your head
you kissed me perfunctorily on the lips
before disappearing into the train.

I withheld the desire to jump in after you,
and as I walked away,
I realized my hand was outstretched at an angle
as if I were still holding onto your hand
I shoved my hand in my pocket
and tightly gripped some loose change
I exited the quiet expanse
and silently went towards home.