I wanted oversize glasses.
I wanted a barrel chest
like Mr. Chen.
On days-off, he stood
on a bridge
over the Yangtze River.
I wanted binoculars
to see the doomed
train coming.
I wanted to see them—
the passengers on the
lost train—coming.
And with my male body I wanted
to pull them back to earth,
off the metal rails.
I wanted to carry
their empty bags.

Dreamy for days.
It was my fantasy, something to do.
I was hopeful, enormously physical.