Depot

I was there before the war,

providing the tiniest depot

on the railroad

without rails

or road.

It was so small

even my parents didn’t know.

There was a loose board in the barn,

low on the corner, on the side with the hayloft.

It was empty most of the time, but I would walk past after dinner,

usually with just a hoecake, but sometimes a chicken wing

or a wedge of cornbread.

I kept a bucket of water in there, not full,

not sloshing over the brim.

I changed it every few days,

kept it fresh.

I fluffed the hay, hoped I gave comfort.

I let word get out about that loose board,

hoped someone sought refuge

where I could give it.

I still remember seeing the boy in chains.

He was about my age

but darker.