This is not
about dissecting bee
hives, celebrating dead
presidents (stacked or face
down), the last time
I saw grass grow
anywhere. This is
about the first time
we spoke and you made
a joke and the train jerked
to a full stop. It was the end
of the line,
and you and I
had just begun.
More than the foot I broke
outside Van Cortlandt Park.
And the friends
and family and
strangers who visited
me up there. To be at the end
of the line
at night and first
on the train the next
morning, to be safely wedged
northwest, to be rich
in two hours’ worth of rhythmic
thought each day is
to be more than the sum
of 160 steps up.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 