She is not a paper doll pressed between
Sheets of cellophane in my notebook for
The world to undress with their eyes.

She elbows me out of dreams featuring
Peter Pan with his Lost Boys, and leaves
A bruise the shape of Illinois on my ribs.

She sews on the Metro without a thimble and ******
Her fingers stitching buttons onto her black pea coat—
White thread bleeds red in her hand.

When she rides the North Line in the winter,
She sails past her stop for the thrill of surveying
New parts of the city bundled in winter clothes.

She collects deserted train tickets with expired
Destinations, and passes the minutes between
Stops speaking with strangers.

Most of them grumble that the Cubs won’t win
The series until they let a goat into Wrigley.

I would trade her every canceled ticket stub
In my wallet to buy her hot chocolate at the
Next random stop she chooses.

But she and I will always be passengers on
Opposite trains traveling to different cities.