The roaring of a train

I heard last night when I opened the windows

now that summer has ebbed,

shot me sideback wayward

to nights with Mom in a bed

in Grandpa’s big house

listening to lumbering oily hulks call to me

from far across town

all night long.

 

The first time we took a train,

Mom and me,

we ate sandwiches

and drank tall glasses of chocolate milk

in the white-linened dining car.

She told me not to stare at the dark suited old man

talking to the empty seat next to him.

I just wanted to see if he ordered two lunches

but she wouldn’t let me look.

She said I needed to understand that he was sick

like anybody can get sick

but in his mind.

Like anybody can get sick—

 

Last night when I heard the lonely

horn blast of the train

I wanted to rush out and buy a ticket.

I wanted to journey.

Do people still ride them?

Do trains still have dining cars?

If so, I’m pretty sure I’d find him there still,

talking to a shadow only he can see.

Someone who keeps him company

throughout the long ride.