David Allen Sullivan
I take off my gloves
to pull my suitcase up
the high steps onto
the Tibet-bound train,
then wheel my case
down the aisle, hoist it
into the overhead rack,
help my family
find seats, and there—
out the window, as the train
judders forward
and I steady myself with
an outstretched hand—
I spy a glove just like mine,
fingers arching upwards
like a spent claw—
on the platform—
then clutch the one
poking from my pocket,
yank open the window
and fling it down
so the two
might be together
on someone’s hands.
