Tin Can Intimacy

I would like to brush against you
in the mini-space of false intimacy
created by the crush
of suits and dresses heading home.
As plus personnes
join me in the tin can,
we stand, and I can feel
your breath on my hair.
It is very strange to realize
that we do not know one another
and in ten minutes time
will never see each other again.

I wish I could wake
the sleeping child to ask her
how her day has been.
She would describe in a small,
squeaky voice, filled with the unique delight reserved for innocence,
the experience that is growing up
in this concrete jungle.
"The slides here are the same as the slides from your childhood,"
she would unwittingly inform me,
"and my toy poodle accompanies me to dance class where it waits patiently outside with my mom who talks into the little box that talks back."
I would discover that, most of all,
she is happiest sleeping
in the arms of her father
in the little metal trap
that takes them safely home.

If you look into his eyes,
you can tell that he would like to hold
the hand of the woman
in the red, floral dress,
to inch his fingers down the metallic pole until he accidentally-on-purpose
brushes her fingers,
memorizing her knuckles
and the two silver rings
before she exits on Broadway
and ceases to exist.

What if we were stuck and the lights went out and we had to wait underground in a man-made cave inside a very small car?
I hope someone would blast "Like A Prayer" and, as one, all shirts
would come off and we would engage
in a half-naked party
and the rescue workers
would discover a mass
of sweaty, happy people
who have crossed
the invisible barriers
immediately erected,
the impenetrable walls
that deflect the possibility
of human comfort.
They would join us
and absorb our endorphins
before bringing us safely to reality.

I would like to reach across the aisle
and cup the cheek of the woman
who has clearly been crying
and share with her the secret knowledge that even when life seems bleakest,
there is always a light
at the end of the tunnel.