Going Back

I wanted to write you a poem tonight,
but all I could think of
was our two nights in the city last week
and how perfect it was
to eat again at Trailer Park  
with its flotilla of votive candles in the window
close enough to set our coats on fire
and cupcakes at Billy’s afterwards,
to sleep in the cramped little guest house
next to the toilet with its extended roaring flush,
and later gaze at Madame X and her delinquent strap
and Washington stuck in the Delaware forever.
Mummies, jackals, Buddhas,
and the long stalled ride back
with a Sikh cab driver as guide.
I love going back.
I think, in a way, going back
is the subway to love.
Easy, noisy, and very close.