NEAR MISS AT THE EL STATION

I pull up to the Cicero el station;
you’re early, standing there like you own the place
in your long black trench.                                                                     Blonde hair frames chiseled face,
blue eyes cold as the ice hanging from my old Catalina,
rusty orange exterior with a blue hood.

Soul mates,
we are connected, an umbilical cord
that won’t quite come clean.

But the same ink that proclaimed your love
in a million letters also scribed several other
girl's numbers.

Strong boxer hands hide
in warm pockets.
I shiver, from the cold, from the heat,
knowing you’ll break my heart
like you win matches in the ring
and you’ll return, over and over, triumphant.

So I put the old Catalina in reverse;
it’s a wonder you don’t hear the engine roar
and backtrack out of that El station.

I put it in drive, do a 360 and move forward.
Inches of unwiped snow 
crash down from the top of my car.

I look back, see your hands catch breath.                                                    I drive
wind wisps snow behind me like old heriloom lace
of a bridal veil, thrown to the wind.