Patient Zero. Tomas Q. Morin

      LOVE TRAIN

       for D’Andra

      My bowl brimming with pretzels,

      the snack you wanted least,

      I slid open the door of our sleeping car

      where we had been enjoying the country rushing by,

      as if we were the first two people

      to look down into the valleys and see

      bright necks of pines stretch across farms

      and streams to the groves they once cradled.

      You had asked for Earl Grey cookies

      sandwiched around buttercream or marshmallows

      made of chocolate, but all the tea bags had been dunked

      and the chocolate melted over biscotti.