|Jan/Feb 2019 Poetry|
Who drives the train that rumbles by at 4 AM?
His vigilance as relentless
as a mother tending her child, sharp as
a beam of sunlight passing through a
Children watch for the daytime train, wave to catch
the engineer's eye, signal him to blow the horn.
They count the freight cars, read names painted on the sides.
Boxcars, tankers, coming down from Canada, red caboose
at the end.
Last summer we sat on the deck of your
rented cabin, making plans for next summer:
how we'd find a place that made a good lobster stew.
This afternoon word came. Someone asked how old you'd been.
A quick calculation: thirteen months
older than me.