Just Like Romeo and Juliet, and: Rehearsal

Just Like Romeo and Juliet

We slept exactly thirteen feet from the tracks
so we drifted off each night counting unlucky stars
unless we couldn't sleep, then maybe we counted
unlucky sheep, sheep mesmerized by coal cars, dusted black
in the shadow of passing freight. And if we still couldn't sleep,
then we might have stirred, padded into the kitchen
to put water on or coffee, to play solitaire, watch infomercials,
whatever people are supposed to do.
Maybe we bumped each other, sparked an argument
about life and its destinations, as the floor buzzed
and intervals of light broke, link after clanging link,
pulsing our faces. The railroad killer
could stop at our door, there could be a freak derailment
or premature deafness, but most likely no, that wouldn't happen,
probably not. So we'd waltz to the clacking tracks.
Listen, we might have said, the trains are wooing each other,
as if for the first time we heard the moan of whistles,
the way antiphonal pitches bounce when trains
pass in opposite directions. Star-crossed lovers,
we might have added, how tragic, how unlucky.
But no, probably not. Probably not.

Rehearsal

There is so much to love.
There is so much that goes unsaid, rippling the bedsheets,
    in your bed, in mine.
Drop her at the bus stop by the sign that reads
Drop everything, there's no time to lose. Press
an extra nickel to her palm -
    there is so much to lose.

There's so much to love, it's hard to keep count.
What is there to say when dishes aren't done
and you burn the rice again?
          Some quarrel to attend, a pan
to slam the stove, another flaming match.
When so much is wrong you can't put a finger on,
there is so much to love,

to lose. There is, but losing is half the thrill.
If you have to, saw the bed in two; get glue, nails,
    screws, a hammer - there's so much
    to love. Your bed
will never be the same, yet
there is so much.