She keeps counting without remembering
what she’s counting.
Looking at her cell phone, is it 

time? Station after station, I count too.
And I get tired, but I know
I must keep going—bricks in phased crumble, 

seconds waiting for a light
to change before I can walk again.
Yes, I count too, 

beside her on the train
rolling away—a rhythm
for both of us in our strangeness. 

The numbers will be the last
to go—my inheritance—cities, square
feet, jobs, books, CD’s, mothers, lovers, little 

deaths. We are nothing
to one another but accidental
companions on the way 

to an airport—I despise this
journey where I don’t get to stay
on till the end: 

Pennsylvania Station, New York City.
No, I’m getting off
at Newark International to return 

to snow in May. What about her? I wonder
what she’s counting on
at the other end.