Arriving Late at the Train Station (Aran Donovan)

Seagulls swing over the dirt heap of Rome.
Termini dark and closed, night buses idle
in rows before the station. I've come to meet a man
I shouldn't, his body the only one I know
in this country. Absurd flocks of those white birds circle
the yellowing street lights. I mean they are old.
Or I am.
Strikes and stoppages country-wide,
I explain. His face is wider than the last time. Still. 
The handrails on the bus are warm 
from the last passengers. I exaggerate the sway
of the bus, push against him. I trust the earth
won't open under us, the way it sometimes does.
Potholes at crossroads, under sidewalks
across Tennessee, their emptiness filled slowly
in a tangle of wet leaves, water welling up.