She must have been born again
at the station, not the port,
because no one's ever really been
saved on an airplane, though plenty are lost
at sea and there's that lonely way about her
that screams yellow vinyl seats,
well worn copies of yesterday's Today
that screams: I've spent every first hour
of the rest of my life kissing anyone else
goodbye and all I've got to show for it
is a bitten lip, a random memory.
And she must have been born again
at the platform, not the dock,
because no one really comes back
from the horizon and there's that slim and willing
edge to her, the well scheduled blinking
and all those little foreign words: negotiate,
assemble. She knows to step off somewhere
between the opening bell and another name
scrawled along the side; somewhere between
when he lets off his brakes and every friendly face
has faded, settled somewhere, safe for the ride.