“Rosalinda is going to Fitchburg?” I asked myself,
and with a strange burst of pleasure, I laughed.
Rosalinda isn’t going to Fitchburg.
That wasn’t Rosalinda sitting in front of me,
unless she has dyed her hair. Rosalinda
hasn’t made me laugh in a long time.
The small conductor with a loud voice
going down the aisle wants everyone
to inform her of their destination. “Fitchburg,”
the conductor said. That’s all it took
for someone who wasn’t Rosalinda,
not Rosalinda in a million years,
to make me laugh. Hey, Rosalinda,
it’s better than tears.