The pink slope of the her nose
Is second only to the plump hand
Out of her rose jumpsuit
As she reaches across the expanse
Of her mother’s lap
Toward the old man in the gray vest,
With the dove-colored beard.
He is shy.
So is she.
Who knows how long you are allowed
To hold the gaze of an infant on the train?
Soon we are all stealing looks in the car
Side-eyeing the two of them staring,
Tallying each other in the books of their souls
Before the door opens,
And he goes.