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.