Minnesota Ice Train
By J. P. White
Some men who are at least fifty-five
wake up in the night to touch their sex
like patting the family dog on the head.
Others rise to pace the square of their den
as if called to guard duty. Still others
peer back at me from their bedroom windows
as if on lookout for some lost shipment
to arrive from Bitterroot, Montana.
I uncurl in bed listening for the 3 AM train
to whip through Wayzata, hugging the lake
so close I imagine it could skip the hot rails
and skid across the ancestral ice toward me,
an ice train come to ferry me home or away
from my encircling command or back to some
earlier time when I too was more fiercely
racing the night, my body clamorous thumping,
the windows rattling, the length of me
moon-drenched, snow falling, sparks raking
my wheels, one more town flown through.