The Woman on the Train to Venice

Like a willow, her hair in ringlet curls
Hung down in dirty-blonde swags.

I spotted the empty seat next to her
While hoisting my traveling bags.

She understood me with her eyes
When I gestured her leave to sit down—

Those gorgeous Adriatic greens
I’d see again when I got into town.

Somewhere near 30 I would’ve guessed,
Spendthrift with the sun,

And holding me there in the mild arrest
Of the fragrance she had on.

The train shimmied past a derelict siding;
My arm brushed the peach of her arm—

Already my mind had raced down the tracks
To conjure the evening to come.

But I soon learned I reckoned wrong:
Verona was her city and station,

And, like a warden, led her away,
This obdurate destination.

Listlessly rocking, myself an empty carriage,
I rolled in over the turquoise lagoon

And everywhere saw the eyes of the woman
Who left the train one stop too soon.